


Room 337

by the_most_beautiful_broom



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bellarke, Doctor Clarke, F/M, Hurt Bellamy, Minor Raven Reyes, Modern AU, POV Bellamy, POV Clarke, bellamy and clarke are exes, but then one chapter of, hospital au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:23:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_most_beautiful_broom/pseuds/the_most_beautiful_broom
Summary: Hospital AU. Clarke broke Bellamy's heart; she knows that. She also knows that even though she had her reasons, he never heard them. It takes Octavia being in a motorcycle crash and being rushed into Clarke's O.R. for the two of them to finally reconcile their differences.Clarke licked her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was small. “Bellamy...please. Isn’t it enough that I left?”It should be.It should be enough to say she was heartless, she’d never loved him like he’d loved her, like he was blind. But it couldn’t be true, and he had to know what was stronger than the word branded on their wrists.He shook his head, turning in the seat to face her. “It was never enough. And I didn’t get to ask why four years ago, so I am now.”Clarke fidgeted in her seat. “Bellamy, neither of us have slept; maybe we could wait—”“I tried,” he interrupted, his voice cracking out of him, sharp. “For four years, Clarke. I waited, and I wondered, and tried to forget and never did. We do this, now.”





	1. The Accident

“Doctor Griffin, to Operating Room Four, please,” the voice over the speakers was devoid of both inflection and empathy. “Doctor Griffin, to four.”

Clarke’s head fell back and she slid her purse off her shoulder and back into the locker. She kicked her flats off and shrugged out of her jacket, shoving them in after her purse.

_One of these nights, my shift will end at midnight and I’ll walk out the door before 5._

But, it was hard to hold onto her rancor when leaving could be the difference between life and death.

She had the routine down pat, and she was scrubbing up outside of the operating room inside of five minutes. She looked up when the door swung open, and her anesthesiologist chucked two bloodied gloves in the trash bin. The fact that he was here meant that the patient was already under, and needed to be monitored.

Clarke lifted a shoulder to push away at the hair itching her neck. “Talk to me, Wells.”

He pulled two fresh gloves on, and then came over to help Clarke with hers.

“Patient is a Jane Doe; she was on a motorcycle, got hit by a driver who ran his stop sign.”

_If it’s bad enough to call me back in; she has more than road rash going on._

“Burns?” she asked, pulling the mask over her face.

“Third degree, on her back and arms,” Wells clarified, “Cracked clavicle, fractured humerus, maybe a broken rib or two…it looks like she landed pretty hard on her left side, and her head hit pavement right after that. They thought it might’ve been a basilar fracture, but the MRI looked more like an ICH and—”

“And they need me for a craniotomy,” Clarke finished for him. “Why hasn’t she been ID’ed?”

Wells pushed open the door with his elbows, then followed Clarke into the operating room. “She was thrown pretty far from her bike and they were still combing the street for a wallet when the ambulance arrived. They didn’t want to wait; she’s a solid two.”

The ER worked on a 1-5 scale; one meant you needed help or you’d flatline and five meant you could’ve taken an advil and gone to your practitioner in the morning. Their patient being a two meant she’d make it, but it wouldn’t be fun for her.

Clarke glanced at the readings on a couple of the machines when she entered the room, then around at the masked faces over the table. Two nurses, good ones, and a new resident—Macy? Molly? No, Madi. The nurses at the table backed away and Clarke turned to face her patient, face-down on the operating table, head already held secure by the 3-pin skull clamp.  

_Alright, Miss Doe, what’ve you got for me?_

A large part of Clarke’s job was detaching the visceral reaction from the medical analysis. Underneath all this blood and snapped bone, behind the tangled wires and the nurses’ tools, there was a body that needed fixing. Just sinews and muscle and skin. 

Of course, all that went to hell when Clarke recognized, even through the flayed skin and oozing blood, a linear tattoo on the girl’s right shoulder. She stepped back from the table, her lips pursing.   

_Shit._

“Wells, your Jane Doe is one Octavia Blake,” Clarke said brusquely, standing over her patient again, “Closest of kin is going to be a Bellamy Blake…get one of the secretaries on contacting him; the sooner he knows the better.”

Wells looked up, and nodded to one of the nurses, who scurried from the room. It was the last thing Clarke noticed in her peripherals before she tuned everything out but the task in front of her. Drilling a hole in someone’s skull didn’t really lend itself to curiosity in your surroundings.

Clarke drew in a steadying breath, holding out her hand. A nurse slipped a scalpel into her palm and Clarke made a clean incision between Octavia’s ear and her hairline as she exhaled. The nurse held some gauze underneath the incision, accepting the scalpel with her other hand. A second nurse handed Clarke the drill, and then traded it for the saw. Clarke handed back the bone flap, pleased with the tidy lines. She felt the weight of scissors in her hand; another steady breath, and Clarke sliced through the dura. There was a pause, and Madi actually gasped when the blood lightened as CSF joined in with the liquid draining from the cavity. One of the nurses looked annoyedly at the resident, but Clarke shared an empathetic look with the second nurse. They’d all been that way when they started their careers: amazed every time a surgery worked out the way their professors said it would.

Clarke handed the scissors over and stepped aside as a nurse adjusted the suction tube, glancing over at Wells. His eyes crinkled above his mask, and though she couldn’t see his smile, it was still encouraging.

_Halfway there._

They’d let the cavity drain first, then it was a matter of putting the puzzle back together. Remove the retractors, then reseal the dura. Suturing the layers of tissue together was one of those things that you could do quickly, or well, and not both; Clarke took her time with her stitches. The bone flap was next, held in place with titanium screws. Then it was just the muscles and skin, and Clarke again took her time. No matter how she played it, there would be a scar, but she took pride in her neat stitching.

_Octavia probably wouldn’t mind an ugly gash; she’d like the story of it._

Clarke could see it—Octavia flipping her hair over her shoulder at a bar to one-up some guy who thought he’d impress her with a scratch the size of his pinky finger.

She motioned for Madi to come closer, to watch her progress.

The girl came, wide-eyed, watching closely each time the needle at the end of the forceps moved and a clean stitch appeared on Octavia’s scalp. Clarke tied off the string, cut it, and then they were done.

A nurse moved in with a bandage to press over the stitch, and Clarke stepped back from the table.

She was never tired until this moment.

During the surgery, during whatever operation, she was too focused to think of anything other than scalpels, forceps, clamps. But her first full breath, as the operating room swarmed with activity, as everyone checked that nothing had gone wrong, this was when it washed over her.

“Who’s dealing with her ribs and collarbone?” she asked the room, her voice cracking with slight disuse.

“Doctor McIntyre,” Wells answered, and Clarke was relieved to hear it.

“Good. Make sure,” she turned to one of the nurses, “That she knows how much anesthesia the patient has already had. If at all possible, keep her head elevated during Harper's inspection. The patient should have SCDs on her legs as soon as possible.”

The nurses nodded and Clarke backed into the swinging door, stripping her gloves off and rolling her neck. The door swung open and Madi joined her.

“That was _amazing_ ,” the girl said, pulling her gloves off her hands and pushing her mask down.

“Anything you’d have done differently?” Clarke asked, hoping the fatigue wasn’t as evident in her voice as it sounded to her own ears.

Madi shook her head emphatically. “Are you kidding? That was textbook. You did it like clockwork, like you’d done it a million times, and everything happened exactly like it was supposed to.”

Clarke found herself fighting a smile, and she pulled off her scrubs.

_That’s because once you’ve done it a couple dozen, a million hardly seems like a hyperbole._

“Sometimes textbook is wrong,” she said, and it wasn’t false modesty, “You’ve got to make sure you’re not just acting on memorization.”

Madi tipped her head, considering that. “Was there any point when you thought you should do something differently?”

“Not this time. If the CSF hadn’t come out right after we breached the dura mater, then I would’ve had to reconsider.”

“What would you have done? If it hadn’t?”

Clarke finished at the sink, turning to face the girl. “That’s a good question. Once something goes wrong, it’s like every multiple choice answer is gone. There’s no clear _if not A, then it must be C_ solution. You’ve got to play it by ear, and trust yourself enough to create the answer.”

Madi nodded. “One more question?”

Clarke spun the paper towel roll, raising an eyebrow as a 'yes'.

“How did you know who she was?”

Clarke tossed the paper towels in the trash bin, crossing the room to the door. “We were kids together,” she said shortly, leaning into the door and pushing out of the room, “Good job today, Madi.”

_Nice little white lie there, Griffin._

But no way was she about to admit that she’d recognized the girl on the table as her ex’s sister. It was true; she and Octavia were the same age. They hadn’t really spent time together until Clarke started dating Bellamy, and when she’d broken his heart, they’d gone right back to not associating with each other

But that was years ago.

If she played this right, she could sneak around seeing Bellamy, and everyone would just buy the story she told Madi.

Clarke made a stop in one of the break rooms, swiping a granola bar from a wicker basket on the counter. She unwrapped it as she walked, grimacing at the taste, but chewing deliberately as she made her way to the main desk of the hospital wing to grab her paperwork. She wasn’t hungry—it was hard to be at 3am—but she needed to eat.

She swiped a tablet from the desk, writing down the surgical notes. She doubted there was anything she’d say that the nurses of Wells hadn’t said, but that was part of the job. It was a quarter to 4 when she finished up, handing the tablet over at the nurse’s station.

“Oh, Doctor Griffin, one more thing before you go?”

_It’s not her fault, it’s not her fault, it’s not her fault..._

Clarke made sure her expression was kind when she turned back to the desk. “Yes, Vera?”

The woman looked relieved. “The girl you helped through surgery,” she was scanning a clipboard and flipped a page, “Octavia Blake?”

“Yes?”

“She’s not in our system at all, and one of your residents said you know her.”

_She probably wouldn’t have let me operate on her if she knew it was me, but yeah, I knew her._

It made sense that Octavia didn’t have a record on file. Clarke knew enough about Blake family history to know that Octavia wasn’t going anywhere near a hospital of her own volition. “I knew her, yes. Is something wrong?”

“Well, with her not being in the system…we don’t have anyone to contact for her.”

_Should’ve seen that coming._

Clarke pulled out her phone, wondering if there was any way to make this uneventful. “I’ll try to get ahold of someone.”

Vera’s face relaxed. “Thank you so much.”

She really should’ve deleted his number.

Years ago, probably.

Clarke swallowed quickly and then pressed dial; he answered on the third ring, his voice thick with sleep.

“Hello?”

“Bellamy.”

She was tired, okay? She was tired and it had been a long night and she was so ready to go home and had she mentioned how tired she was? That’s why her voice sounded breathless. No other reason.

There was a rustling on the other end of the line, and she could picture him, sitting straight upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Checking the clock by his bed, rubbing a hand over his forehead as he registered the time, registered her voice.

“Clarke?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry to wake you.”

More rustling, and he was quiet. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re playing at, after four years—”

“It’s Octavia, Bellamy,” she interrupted, needing him to not finish that line of thought.

More rustling; that would be him standing, reaching for the glasses he wore when it was early, and pulling something, whatever was closest, over his head.  

“What happened.” All the sleep was gone from his voice; it wasn’t so much a question as it was him demanding an explanation.

“She’s okay,” Clarke said quickly. “Or she will be. There was an accident. She’s already out of operation, but they’re taking her to the ICU to be monitored—”

"She was already operated on?" She heard a door slam, and then there was static on the phone; Bellamy must’ve bolted from his apartment and already be on the way to his car. “Why the hell am I just now hearing about this?”

Clarke stepped away from the nurse’s stand. She knew he wasn’t angry with her, just mad with worry. Okay so maybe he was angry with her, but not about his sister. “O isn’t on any of the hospital records; they grabbed me on my way out because I recognized her.”

The car door slammed, but Bellamy was silent. “You saw her?”

Clarke winced, knowing exactly what he was thinking. He knew she was in Neurosurgery, and if he knew she’d operated on Octavia, he’d know just how serious it was… There was no way she could tell him, simple as that. He find out about the craniotomy when he was physically at the hospital; if she told him now, there was no way she could trust him to drive with a semblance of safety. “Like I said,” she cleared her throat, “I was on my way out and they were wheeling her over to the another floor.”

She heard his sigh of relief and felt guilty for a moment.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll be there in two hours. Maybe 90 minutes.”

Clarke blinked. “Two hours?”

She heard an engine revving to life. “Yeah. I’m not in Arkadia; I’m doing a series of lectures at Polis.”

“Bellamy,” Clarke pinched the bridge of her nose, picturing the drive from the University at the state capital. “Polis is three hours away.”

“I’ll be there in two,” he said, his voice hard. “I’ll give Lincoln a call; he can be there in 30.”

“Who?”

“Her boyfriend.”

_Oh. Good for O._

She’d wondered when the girl would find someone. Clarke refocused. “Okay. Tell him to ask for Dr. Griffin at the front desk. I’ll meet him.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

His tone was clipped, and Clarke realized that as the panic was fading, he was slipping back to his initial reaction that she’d called. She tried not to bristle, but she drew herself up.

“Actually, it will be. The hospital has security protocols in place for a reason, and they’re not going to let some man into the ICU just because he says he knows a patient. Especially if he’s not related. I’m the only way he gets in.”

She could practically hear Bellamy trying to come up with a counter argument through the silence on the line. Finally, he sighed. “Thank you,” he said quietly, and then he quickly hung up.

Clarke lowered the phone from her ear.

That was always how it had been with the two of them, jumping between emotions. Especially Bellamy. For all his exterior gruffness, the man was all heart. It was why she knew she couldn't explain why she'd needed to leave, and why he broke when she did.

Clarke shook her head, heading back to the nurse’s station. “Hey, Vera?”

The nurse turned. “Did you get ahold of someone?”

Clarke nodded. “Her brother, yeah.”

The nurse made a face that Clarke knew wasn’t meant to be disapproving, but it definitely came across that way. “Not a parent?”

Clarke lifted her chin. “He’s all the family she has,” she said, and the nurse looked had the grace to look guilty.

“Oh that’s a shame.”

“Not if you had a brother like that,” Clarke said honestly, her tone still brisk. “Anything else?”

Vera shook her head, and Clarke nodded curtly. “Thank you, Vera.”

She turned from the station, her back straight.

_Since when did I start defending Bellamy Blake again?_

Okay, that wasn’t fair, she probably hadn’t stopped. Regardless of what had gone down between them, he’d always been the best family Octavia could need. She knew that; everyone who saw them knew that. Still.

Clarke took the elevators down to the first floor, giving Lincoln’s information to the front desk. Just before the revolving doors, she hesitated.

_I could go home._

Truthfully, her shift had ended four hours ago. She had the next day off, as she always did, and she had things she needed to do. Go check in on her mom, stock up on actual groceries so she didn’t have to keep eating those horrible break room granola bars.

_I should go home._

She needed sleep, desperately. Always, really. She needed to sleep, needed to be productive, needed to make use of her time off, so when she came back on Wednesday she’d be good to go.

_What’s the point, Griffin, you know you’re not going anywhere._

Clarke went back to the front desk, sinking into one of the chairs in the lobby.

Twenty minutes later, the doors burst open, and a tall man strode into the hospital. He wore a leather jacket and heavy boots, his shoulders were broad and his eyes were searing.

There was no way this wasn’t Octavia’s Lincoln.

Clarke was on her feet, moving to intercept him before he got to the desk. “Lincoln?”

He stopped short, looking down at her. “Doctor Griffin?”

She nodded. “Yep. Let’s get you checked in.”

They made their way to the front desk, and Clarke waited while the receptionist printed out a badge for him. She had been right with Bellamy: even though the receptionists looked ready to swoon over Lincoln, they weren’t about to let him into the ICU. Until Clarke stepped in; sometimes rules bent too easily.

Before Lincoln had show up, Clarke had checked in with Harper; Octavia’s mending self was resting on the third floor. She wasn’t supposed to wake until 5, but they were cleared to wait there.

Lincoln’s hands were clenched at his sides, and he didn’t attempt small talk as they took the elevator. Clarke lead the way to the room, hesitating as they turned down the corridor. “Okay, I don’t know how much Bellamy told you—”

“Pretty much nothing.”

“That’s because I didn’t tell him much,” Clarke admitted, feeling pretty worthy of the angry look Lincoln sent her, “Look, he needs to get here safely; knowing what I had to do to his sister wasn’t going to help.”

''What you had to do..." Lincoln looked down at her, before fixing his eyes determinedly on the hallway in front of them, “I didn’t know you were her surgeon?”

_I put screws in her head, you'd better hope I'm a surgeon._

“One of them. I’m the neurologist on call.”

Lincoln’s step faltered. “Neurologist…like her brain was injured?”

“If it helps, I’m pretty good at my job. She’ll be okay. I’m telling you this because,” Clarke stopped in front of Room 337, “this is not a quick recovery. She didn’t scrape her knee; we’re talking broken bones and a fractured skull.”

Lincoln’s jaw clenched. “I get why you didn’t tell Bellamy,” he said after a pause.

Clarke offered a semblance of a smile. “She’ll be alright; I promise. She’s just not going to be back to 100% right away. Okay?”

Lincoln nodded. “So, Caution: Handle with Care?”

“Exactly.”

She pushed open the door.

Lincoln had to duck under the door frame, and Clarke followed him into the dark room. On instinct, she went to check the clipboard hanging on the bed frame. Octavia’s vitals were normal; they couldn’t be expected to be awesome, but they were solid. She’d known the girl was a fighter, but it was still good to see it on paper. Clarke checked the monitors next, trying to give Lincoln a moment to orient himself. When she did look in his direction, he hadn’t moved much.

He was by the side of the bed, a hand hovering just above Octavia’s scraped one. He looked up at her, his face heavy with emotion. “She looks so…”

“I know,” Clarke said gently; she didn’t need him to finish the sentence. It was always hard for people to see their loved ones with life dripping out of them. Skin was pale where it was usually flushed, raw where it was usually smooth, and bandages were always off-putting. Especially the ones that engulfed the entirety of a patient’s head, like Octavia’s did.  

Lincoln’s hand lowered onto Octavia’s, and Clarke crossed behind him, pulling a chair away from the wall and pushing it behind him. He looked over with a grateful glance, then sunk into the chair, settling his chin onto the railing of the bed.

“It’s going to be a while before she wakes,” Clarke said quietly, “and Bellamy won’t be here for another couple of hours. But you’re welcome to stay here.”

Lincoln didn’t say anything, and Clarke took that as her cue.

She let herself out of the room.

As she closed the door, she leaned against it, slowly breathing in and out.

It was her first time operating on someone she knew. It was always high stakes; people’s brains were nothing to take lightly. But this was the first time she’d know. One mistake, and she’d never hear Octavia’s laugh again. One cut in the wrong direction, and the girl she knew would be changed. It wasn’t like they’d interacted a lot, but she would’ve known. Clarke resisted the urge to slide down the door, the weariness from the operating room creeping back over her.

_There’s no way I can drive home._

She didn’t like sleeping at the hospital, but it was really her only choice at this point. She pushed away from the door, looking through the window at the room. Lincoln hadn’t moved; his thumb was gently tracing over the back of Octavia’s hand. Something clenched in her heart, and Clarke realized what it was: she recognized that look on his face.

She knew what it was like to love a Blake.

It consumed you. The only thing that mattered was that they were happy, and safe. You’d make whatever hard choice, whatever impossible decision, to make things right by them. Your heart beat for them and when you couldn’t find anything else that was real, you thought of their smile. Even if they'd never understand...

Clarke pushed herself away from the door, her steps slow and weary down the hallway. She checked in at the nurse’s station, letting them know to page her, and her first, if there were any developments in 337. She made her way to the on-call room, smiling slightly when she recognized Wells’ form curled up in one of the bunks. She pulled a blanket from the basket in the corner, slipping off her shoes and crawling into the bed above his. As her eyes closed and the sounds and smells of the hospital faded around her, Clarke’s fingers drifted to her wrist, tracing over the white ink there, spelling a word in handwriting that wasn’t her own— _together_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Lovelies! So, this was actually supposed to be just a one shot, but once I got to writing, I realized the angst just had to be drawn out. Any ideas or suggestions? In the coming chapters (once I get them out of my head and onto paper!) we have (1) Big Brother Bellamy being protective and sweet (2) Bossy Doctor Griffin saying ‘that’s nice and all, but let me do my job’ (3) Lincoln, sweet Lincoln, rolling his eyes at Bellarke and asking Bellamy what his damage is; this Clarke girl seems great (4) brooding Bellamy (5) Conflicted Clarke…somone tell me they appreciate these alliterations (6) Lincoln being the mvp and helping Octavia with physical therapy (7) Bellarke fight—I will be rewatching 03x05 for maximum hurt puppy feels, and then of course, some (8) ridiculously happy Bellarke reunion fluff.


	2. The Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intern means to compliment her, but his probing questions send Clarke into a flashback of the clearest decision she's ever made.

Eighty minutes of sleep. 

That was all she got, and then an intern was shaking her awake. 

"I'm so sorry, Doctor Griffin, but this woman is bleeding everywhere and her husband’s a code grey and kept yelling that his wife deserved a real surgeon..."

Clarke swung her legs over the bunk without opening her eyes. When her feet hit the ground, she looked up at the intern. He was a gangly thing, and he was regarding her with wide eyes, looking mildly terrified.

_I wonder if it’s me or the code grey he’s worried about._

Code grey meant combative, which was never fun. Clarke swung her arms in front of her, then pulled her hair back into a pony tail, wracking her brain. “Jason? No, Jasper. Right?”

The intern’s face washed with relief and he nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Okay. I’m not on call right now, but,” she continued quickly when his expression fell, “I’ll help you. I need to get my coat and put my scrubs back on, so I’ll meet you in the OR in 5. Good?”

“Thanks Dr. Griffin,” he said, before rushing out of the room again.

_And next time, check the schedule, kid._

The patient had sliced her hand open on a can of preserved peaches; it was messier than it was difficult. Jasper hadn’t been exaggerating; her husband was livid. He had some opinions when the surgeon who came in to address his wife was a 5’4” blonde, but Clarke had gotten pretty good at tuning people out. She slipped a needle into his wife’s arm, then sewed four stitches across her palm. Told her to come back in five days so they could be taken out, then ushered them both out of the room. Everyone breathed easier without a raging man in their midst. Clarke was throwing away her gloves when she felt eyes on her.

It was Jasper, watching from across the room. She tilted her head to the side, and he came over.

“Why’d you call a code grey?”

Jasper rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I was probably overreacting, he just seemed really angry—”

Clarke shook her head, cutting him off. “Not what I asked. Don’t give excuses when you’re asked for answers.”

Jasper shifted back and forth on his feet. “He was scaring the girl who was in for her tonsillectomy,” he admitted.

_Oh, sweet boy._

She softened her voice. “Okay. Was there something in how I handled it that you couldn’t have done?”

“No. You just…tuned him out.”

“I did. Because he was loud and abrasive, and I’m sorry that he scared that girl, but the best thing I could do for him was to fix his wife. Sometimes you have to remove him from the OR, sometimes a calming talk is all it takes. You’ve got to be able to read the people with the patients; our job is treating them just as much as it is sutures. Okay?”

She could see Jasper working through her advice. “Yeah. Well, thanks for coming up.”

Clarke nodded. “Sure. Who’s the surgeon on call anyways?”

“Doctor Collins.”

_Of course it’s Finn._

Clarke wasn’t surprised he was nowhere around when an intern needed help. Jasper was watching her carefully, and so she wrinkled her nose, which earned her a snort from the intern. He hesitated for a moment, seeming to gather his courage, before blurting, “Is that how you did it?”

Clarke frowned. “How I did what?”

“Not giving excuses when you were asked for answers,” he parroted her words back to him, and realization sunk in. It never ceased to amaze her, how quickly she could go from being perfectly fine to being haunted by her past.

“Are you asking about my career, my title, or the Reaper antidote?” she asked carefully, working at keeping her voice calm.

Jasper hadn’t noticed the change in her demeanor, and he shrugged. “Yes to all?”

Clarke pulled her hair out of the ponytail, raking her hands through it, and trying to ignore the fact that the room felt like it was closing in. She twisted her hair into a bun, and cleared her throat. “If you’re looking for a secret, there isn’t one. You work hard, you don’t sleep. You take every shift you can, you impress everyone who could possibly help you. Then you—”

“Solve an incurable illness?” he interrupted jokingly.

He meant well.

They always meant it as a compliment; no one ever noticed how she recoiled. Clarke made herself leave her hair alone, stuffing her hands into the pocket of her coat, ashamed that they still shook.

“Even that,” she said brightly, fighting back memories, her tone even. “If you want it bad enough, more than anything, when it’s your only option…You’d be surprised what you can do when you live each day like it’s your only chance.”

Jasper was nodding eagerly, absorbing advice; she couldn’t blame him. She’d been that impressionable, once.

Clarke smiled, hoping it didn’t look as stretched as it felt. “Finn will turn up somewhere. If he doesn’t, I’ll be around, k?”

She turned quickly, needing to get out of the room, barely hearing when Jasper called his thanks after her. In the hallway she hesitated; it wasn’t enough. She needed air, actual air. She burst into the stairwell, taking the stairs by twos as she ran to the ground floor. The door flung open and Clarke drew in a gasping breath of the crisp morning air. Her eyes fell closed as she tilted her head back; the years fell away and she was lost in the memory.

\-----

Clarke hesitated for a moment outside the office door, reading the name printed in gold-plated letters.

Dante Wallace.

The man who had brought her to Mount Weather Hospital. The doctor who embodied all that she wanted from a career in medicine. Her mentor.

She looked down into her hands, feeling the weight of the file, then reached up and rapped on the door. 

“Ah, Miss Griffin. Do come in.”

She closed the door behind her, shutting out the hospital, and crossed the room towards the mahogany desk and the man behind it. She didn’t have the words to ask, just set the file on the desk, the manila folder a stark contrast to the deep wood. 

Dante reached for the file, turning it slightly to read the label printed in the top corner: Borealis.

Nothing in his expression changed, not a glimmer of recognition or a flinch of regret. Dante leaned back in his chair, not even opening the file, folding his hands on a crossed leg. At length he sighed, looking up to Clarke. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way.”

So it was true.

She raised a hand to her head, pressing it against her forehead.

“I took an oath,” she whispered. Dante looked at her, his face still masked, and Clarke shook her head in disbelief. “An oath. To be honest and ethical, to do no harm. And then I find out—”

“Sit down, Clarke,” he said, and she did, more out of reflex than anything else. Dante came around the desk, perching himself of the edge of it, crossing his arms and looking down at her. “It can be hard to take in.”

Clarke stared at the man she thought she knew. “No. Letting my first patient code; that was hard. Meeting my first DOA ambulance; that was hard. Holding a girl’s arms to keep her from taking her own life; Dante, _that_ is hard. This is—”

“Medicine,” he interrupted her, repeating himself deliberately. “This is medicine. Progress comes at a price, Miss Griffin. Mount Weather was the only one willing to pay it.”

Clarke closed her eyes, wishing she could block it all out.

She should’ve asked questions sooner. She should’ve known that the hospital was hiding darkness in its pristine corridors. She should’ve refused to be blinded by the Mount Weather’s reputation.

The Reaper virus was the number two cause of death in North America. Nobody knew where it came from initially, but it had swept the continent like a plague. Antibiotics were useless, quarantine was ineffective; the black market for morphine swelled as the sick paid anything for a way out of their agony. Millions dead, and there was no hope.

And then came Mount Weather.

Like a beacon in the storm, the hospital released a vaccination. It knocked you out for a week, your blood boiling, your stomach twisting, your eyes burning. But then you were invulnerable. 76% of the population was inoculated in the next month, and the Reaper Virus was held at bay.

But there was no cure.

Again, Mount Weather led the way, producing new vaccinations; their government funding swelling to support the research. And they toiled, for years and years. The incubation period was cut down to five days, then three. By the time Clarke was accepted as a surgeon’s intern, it was down to two days.

Still no cure.

She’d learned so much during her time here. She’d grown as a surgeon, as a professional, under the careful guidance of her mentor: the man who’d first discovered the vaccination, Dante Wallace himself. It had been like something of a dream, saving lives making a difference; it had all been going so well, until she stumbled into the cages.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could see them. Stacked in crates like animals, skin translucent for lack of blood. Victims of the Reaper Virus, their blood sucked out of them and sealed neatly into centrifuges, then whirled and transformed into the vaccine that would save their people.

She hadn’t wanted to believe it at first.

Not Doctor Wallace, not their savior. He would never. But she dug deeper, and it appeared he would.

See, the virus was volatile, pervasive; most victims were rendered immobile within 24 hours of contracting it. But in order to create a vaccine, Mount Weather needed live cultures. So in the early stages of the epidemic, while most searched the dark web for morphine, some looked for more creative solutions. Mount weather promised relief. Monetary rewards beyond belief, ensured vaccination for the families of the volunteers in a revolutionary new study they were conducting. They’d pay for travel, room and board, expenses, everything; all they needed was a host.

Borealis was her code name, the first person to submit an application for the Initiative, and still be alive by the time Mount Weather followed up. They drew up a contract—her two children would be the first on the list of people to be vaccinated, and a cool $130k was divided between two college savings accounts. And, just like that, Mount Weather’s Reaper Initiative was born, tapped from the veins of Borealis.

Dante reached behind him to the desk. “One life,” he said slowly, tapping the manila folder, “saved hundreds of thousands.”

Clarke shook her head. “If Borealis was all you needed for the vaccines, why do we keep people infected with the virus—people we should be trying to help—in cages?”

“4,600.” Dante’s mouth tightened into a line, looking out the window of the hospital. “That’s the number of people who die every month because of the Reaper Virus. For all our vaccines, for all our improvements, four thousand a month. That’s what the cages are for.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“We still don’t have a cure, Clarke. Even for Borealis’ sacrifice, and the sacrifices of those like her, all we can do is prevention. The cages are helping us with that.”

“We’re mining them for cultures?” she asked it, but she knew the answer. “We’re draining their lives for a wish; that’s not right.”

“No, it’s not comfortable. It’s not sunshine and it’s not pretty. But it is what’s right.”

Clarke stood suddenly, and Dante looked away from the window to regard her. She took a deep breath. “I…I am so grateful for what you’ve taught me here. I’ve come so far as a surgeon. Thank you. But this…this I cannot do. Consider this my resignation.”

She was almost to the door when a low sound came from the desk behind her. She turned in disbelief, Dante’s laugh sending a chill down her spine.

“I’ve always admired that about you, Clarke,” he said, mirth still shining in his eyes, “Your ability to move from resolution to action without hesitation. There’s no deliberation, you just do.”

Her step didn’t falter. “Thank you.”

“Did you know that Bellamy Blake shares his mother’s blood type?”

Her hand froze on the door.

Dante shifted on the desk, his voice leisurely. “Strong boy, that one. So much of his mother’s strength. You know, we haven’t found a host with Borealis’ resilience since then; I imagine her son might just be the one.”

Borealis. Like the northern lights, Aurora Borealis.How could she have not seen it before?

“Aurora Blake? She was your first live culture?” Clarke didn’t know why she was asking; she knew it was true. She’d heard the story from her boyfriend, cradled his head when he whispered that the Reaper Virus had claimed his mother, that she’d disappeared into a hospital and never returned. That every day he lived with the guilt of her passing—at her death they’d discovered two college accounts, set up for him and his sister. The only conclusion Bellamy could draw was that his mother had worked herself into exhaustion for his future, and that exhaustion had left her vulnerable to the virus.

Dante was studying his nails and he shrugged casually. “Remarkable woman, that Aurora. Beautiful, too, even as the virus took over her.”

Clarke’s nails dug into her palm as she clenched her fists. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” her voice shaking with anger. “You ruined a family—”

“Did I?” Dante’s voice cracked across the office, “Ruin a family? I gave them a future, Clarke. Aurora made her choice and I upheld my end of the bargain, just as she did hers. Two children, ripped out of poverty, in a world that is safe because of the virus their mother died to deliver!”

His voice echoed, but not as loudly as the silence that followed.

Clarke’s head was spinning. “How can you be so callous?” 

Dante drew in a breath; she could see him trying to recover his usual calm demeanor. “That’s not the question you should be asking yourself, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke lifted her chin. “And what is?”

The doctor went back behind his desk, folding his hands across his desk. “You have a lot of factors to consider here. The origins of our Reaper Initiative, the participation of your boyfriend’s mother, his unique ability to add to our program, your involvement in it...I’ve always had so much hope for you, Clarke. You’re bright, and innovative. You think differently. I thought maybe you could lead us to the culmination of the Reaper Initiative.”

“I already told you I was quitting; I want no part in a crusade that requires literal human sacrifice.”

Dante sighed. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’re either a part of the cure or,” he shrugged, “you step aside, and we launch Borealis 2.0.”

Clarke’s throat was dry. This wasn’t happening. “Bellamy is vaccinated,” she said, hating how small her voice sounded, “his sister too. Y-you can’t hurt them.”

“Oh, Clarke,” Dante laughed wryly, “You don’t think the men who prevent a disease can create it just as easily?”

Everything stopped. She could hear her breath echoing in her ears, feel each hair on her arm, see the light breaking through the windows, shining like the victory in Dante’s eyes. She drew in a breath—Bellamy, her Bellamy. She had to keep him safe. She couldn’t change what they had done to Aurora, but she could make sure it was worth it—and she let it out.

Time resumed, she drew in another breath and it left her without a second thought. She couldn’t feel her heartbeat, and everything was clear.

She wiped at her face, livid that her hand came away wet, and walked over to the desk. She sank composedly into the chair. They stared at each other for a while, the doctor and the intern, the man who played god and the girl who caught him.

“I want it in writing,” she said, her voice finally steady, “Your signature, your word, that you will never touch the Blakes. Never.”

Dante raised an eyebrow. “I thought your ambition had a larger appetite.”

She wasn’t finished. “I was serious earlier; I don’t want anything to do with this crusade of yours. When I’m done here; I’m a resident. I have no ties to this hospital, this organization, or you. I owe you nothing.”

A look flashed across his face, like that was what he’d been expecting. “And in return?”

Clarke’s head was pounding, and it was like someone else took control of her mouth. “I give you a cure.”

And Dante Wallace smiled.

She signed her name next to his, on embossed stationary, under spidery font that read: “The cure for the Blakes.”

Clarke held her head high, shoulder blades pressed together as she left the office, walking off the main floor of the hospital. Once she was outside, she wretched in the parking lot, not able to stop until the asphalt was green with bile.

She wiped her mouth.

Turned and walked back into the hospital.

Ignored every text, denied every call, changed the keys to her apartment. Held off her sobs until his car drove away, telling herself that she couldn’t be with him, couldn’t let herself be distracted. She had to give Dante his cure, or he would take her heart. It took six months, but Bellamy finally gave up.

One month after that, she lay a syringe on Dante Wallace’s desk. Clarke made sure she was there when they unlocked the cages in the basement; she injected each of them, personally, with a syringe filled with the solution she gave Wallace, watched their eyes clear and their shoulders relax. Silently, she begged their forgiveness.

He released her name to the media, telling the world of the cunning surgeon they had, the girl who had saved them all from the virus. It looked like a gallant gesture, harmless praise for a modest pupil, but she saw it for what it was: history would tie her to Mount Weather. Though she leave the hospital, she could never escape what she’d done. The world rejoiced; they were free. Mount Weather held the vaccine and the antidote.

And it had only cost her soul. 

\-----

“Doctor Griffin to Room 337, please, Griffin to 337.”

Clarke jerked back to the present day, her head slamming on the exterior of the hospital. She winced, reaching up to brush the stucco out of her hair. Clarke rubbed her hands over her eyes, wishing she could wipe away the ache inside her with as easy a motion.

_Wait, 337. That’s O._

Clarke pushed away from the wall, fumbling with her ID badge to open the door. She sprinted the three flights of stairs to the room. Octavia had to be fine, otherwise they’d have called a code, or paged for the actual doctor on call. Not that Finn would do much good, but the fact that the nurse had paged her meant that they remembered her request, and felt like being kind.

_Bless you, Maya._

Clarke pushed out of the stairwell, pulling her stethoscope out of her pocket and winding through the bustle of people in the ICU.

“I owe you a Starbucks,” she called as she rushed past the waiting station.

Maya looked up and smiled, before going back to whatever reports she was parsing through.

When she got to 337, Clarke took a moment to steady her breathing, and talk herself down.

_Leave it outside, Griffin._

It was years ago. She’d found the cure, kept them safe, and the only downside was that they hated her for it.

_Happy thoughts, happy thoughts…_

She opened the door, a pleasant smile fixed on her face. Lincoln hadn’t moved, was still sitting patiently by Octavia’s side, holding her hand. His back had to be killing him, say nothing of his neck, but he didn’t seem the type to complain.

“You look more the part this time,” he said as she crossed the room, towards the machines at the head of the bed. 

Clarke looked down at her scrubs and surgeons coat. “I was on my way out last time. How’s she doing?”

“She’s awake.”

The voice was scratchy and came from the head of the bed; Clarke looked down quickly.

_So she is._

It was good. Really really good. Octavia was up and she was cognizant, so that was a definite win. Clarke picked up the clipboard from the head of the bed, scanning the notes of the nurses who’d run the routine checkins, and administered oxygen and pain meds. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The corners of Octavia’s mouth tilted up, but then she grimaced. “It doesn’t feel like it.”

Clarke huffed slightly. “Hate to tell you, O, but this is what it’s going to feel like for a while.”

Octavia probably would’ve nodded, but keeping her eyes opened was seeming like a difficult enough task. “It’s been a while,” she said, after a moment’s pause.

Clarke’s fingers clenched on the clipboard, and she made herself lift her eyes. “Yeah.”

Octavia’s expression was uncertain, and Clarke was sure hers was this same. There was no gentle way for Octavia to say ‘the last time we hung out, we were jokingly making pinterest boards for your and my brother’s wedding’, just like there wasn’t a polite way for Clarke to say ‘I know you haven’t talked to me since because you couldn’t do it without hating me’. It was a lot to say without words.

“So, did Lincoln fill you in?”

Octavia blinked, slowly, like her eyelids were weighted. “My bike is totaled…there are screws in my head…you shaved off some of my hair…”

Her voice was fading and Clarke stepped closer to the bed to catch her last words. “Yeah, that’s the gist of it,” she said soothingly. “You’re going to have to take it easy for a while, that was a pretty intense surgery.”

“I’m a pretty intense person,” Octavia mumbled.

Clarke knew there were tests she was supposed to run, but they could wait. It was no official diagnosis, obviously, but if she had to guess, Octavia was just fine.

The girl was drifting away when there was a bang of a door being thrown open, out in the hallway. Rapid footfall followed and Clarke barely had time to move away from the bed when the door swung open.

And there he was.

Bellamy didn’t even pause at the door, rushing into the room, around the bed to Octavia’s side. Clarke pressed herself against the wall. In a moment, he was on his knees by the bed, his hands hovering over the gown Octavia was wearing. His eyes hadn’t left his sister’s face, and he looked terrified.

Clarke’s heart clenched.

Four years.

Four years since she’d stood this close to him. Seen his profile, heard him breathing. And as bad as it had been, running from Jasper from the hospital, blocking out the memories, Clarke knew two things for certain. The first was that if she had a choice, she’d do it exactly the same way. Every bit of it, every failed test, every late night, every breakdown in the Mount Weather corridor, she’d go through it all again for this moment in the hospital, the Blake siblings grasping each other, and holding on.

And the second…

Clarke felt eyes on her and she looked up to see Lincoln watching her. She schooled her features as quickly as she could, willing her brow to unfurrow, her eyes to clear, her jaw to loosen. She set the clipboard down as quietly as she could, and slipped along the walls. She felt the handle behind her and breathed a sigh of relief when she emerged into the fluorescent lighting of the corridor, closing Room 337 securely behind her.

Twenty minutes later, Clarke leaned against the door of her apartment, flipping the dead bolt and tossing her keys in the bowl by the entry way. She dragged herself to the couch, falling onto it, not bothering with the stairs or taking her shoes off.

_You did it, Griffin._

The first thing she knew was that she’d do it again. The second thing she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was that she couldn’t hear his voice without breaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I had the HARDEST time coming up with a reason for their breakup!! I couldn't think of anything Clarke could do that Bellamy wouldn't forgive her for, so I had to just really go for it...I hope you like it. Too much/not enough?? I almost made her flashback a chapter of its own, but decided to split it this way, so the next chapter can be entirely focused on Bellamy and Clarke finally (FINALLY) interacting. Thank you so much for all your sweet comments and kind words; it means a lot to me ♥


	3. The Wheelchair

Clarke had to get through seven hours of her shift on Wednesday before she had a spare minute to go see how Octavia was doing. She still had the SCDs clamped around her legs, and the head of her bed was elevated, but at least they took the catheter out. Clarke tapped lightly on the door, peaking into the dark room. Lincoln was asleep—finally, if she was to take Maya’s word for it—on the pullout couch, but Octavia was staring at the ceiling. Her eyes went to the door at Clarke’s knocking, then she refocused on the ceiling.

“Thank god,” she muttered, “I’ve had to go for the bathroom for half an hour.”

Clarke dipped into the room, stepping around Lincoln’s outstretched legs and pulling Octavia’s IV pole away from the wall. She fed the wires around the bed, and pressed a button on the side of it to raise Octavia to a sitting position. “You know,” she kept her voice low, “There’s a button right here that would call a nurse.”

“Yeah, and last time I pressed it, the buzz woke him up. This is the first time he’s slept since then.”

_Fair enough._

Clarke undid the SCDs, pulling Octavia’s legs out of them and gently dragging them over edge of the bed. She dipped her head and slid her arm under both of Octavia’s, working around the bandages around her ribs and the sling for her collarbone. The girl drew in a shaky breath, leaning in to Clarke’s shoulder.

“When did the world start spinning so easily,” she said breathlessly, and Clarke was still for a moment, letting her rest, trying to think of a way to distract her.

“How’d you two meet?”

“The regional tryouts for American Ninja Warrior.”

_Literally nothing about that surprises me._

“I don’t think ‘aw, how sweet’ is the right response to that.”

Octavia snorted. “Not really.”

“Did either of you go on the show?”

“Nah. I just wanted to see if I could do it. They accepted both of us, but I didn’t want to be on TV or make a big deal of it, you know? So I just left, and he ran after me, and we got drinks.”

“What’s a horseback ride into the sunset got on monkey bars and rope ladders?”

“Damn right.”

Clarke smiled. “Okay. You ready?”

“Guess so.”

Clarke stood, lifting Octavia with her. They stood for a minute, Octavia’s legs shaking and Clarke steadying her. “If it helps, you’re way past most people in terms of recovery progress.”

“It doesn’t,” Octavia grunted, “but thanks for trying.”

 Clarke reached back for the IV pole, dragging it with them when they finally started to move. The bathroom was probably five steps away, but it took them thirty; Clarke carrying them and Octavia’s feet barely moving as she shuffled across the floor. The trip back took twice as long, since Octavia was already worn out from the initial excursion. When they were almost to the bed, Octavia stopped suddenly.

“Can we use that?”

Clarke followed the girl’s gaze, her eyes landing on a wheelchair in the corner of the room. “O, we’re practically back to the bed.”

“No I know. I meant we could take a field trip?”

Clarke kept moving towards the bed. “You’re not ready for that, yet. Sorry.”

Octavia sighed. “Come on. I was asleep when they moved me up here. I haven’t seen anything but machines and wires for the last three days.”

Clarke kept moving them towards the bed. “And that’s all you’ll keep seeing for a couple more. You’re not strong enough yet.”

Octavia huffed. “You’re no fun.”

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.”

But she knew she was right, and Octavia did too; when they got back to the bed and the girl’s eyes drifted shut almost immediately.

“See,” Clarke teased, “No point in a field trip if you can’t keep your eyes open.”

“No fun,” Octavia repeated petulantly.

Clarke shook her head, reattaching the SCDs and adjusting the setting. She checked the charts by the bed, reading all the nurse’s logs from the past few days, and then pulled a blanket from one of the cabinets, tucking it around Octavia’s shoulders. She pulled out another blanket and draped it over Lincoln’s sleeping form, too. It was almost laughable, how little of his body the flimsy blanket actually covered.

She was back at the bed, trying to check on the stitches without waking Octavia, when a shadow fell over the room.

Bellamy was leaning against the door frame, his eyes fixed on her. She pulled her hands away from the sleeping girl, and they dropped to her side. “I was on my way out,” she said, her voice still hushed for Lincoln’s sake.

Bellamy didn’t react, even as she had to turn sideways to get past him. Just as she was through the doorway, she heard him move, and a hand closed on her arm, just above her elbow.

 _Breathe_.

She should pull her arm away.

Walk down the hall, check on her patients, move on. Do what she’d been doing for years—ignoring the ache inside her heart, the cavity where he should be, the knowledge that no one could ever know her like he did.

Maybe she was a sadist, maybe her mind had given up control of her body. Because instead of doing the rational thing, she looked up at him.

There was several days’ worth of stubble along his jawline; his hair probably hadn’t been brushed in just as long. His mouth was drawn tightly, his eyes were bleary and streaked with red, and the soft skin under them dark with exhaustion. His eyes…they’d always been her favorite. The way that he couldn’t hide what he was thinking, the way they pooled with emotion. Dark brown, warm, like black coffee or a hug that lasts longer than it should.

She didn’t know how long they stood there, staring at each other, trying to find words and desperately pushing them away once they came. But then Bellamy pulled her out into the hallway, letting go of her arm and closing the door behind him. Clarke felt the loss of his hand immediately, lifting her arm to rub her coat where it had been.

_God, what can I even say?_

She could feel his eyes on her, but she felt him studying her, and she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Look, Bellamy, I know I should've told you about the cra—”

“Thank you.”

His voice was gravelly, rough from lack of use, and Clarke stuttered to a stop. “W-what?”

 “This,” Bellamy lifted a hand, gesturing between the two of them, “this aside. You’re one of the best surgeons in the nation, and you operated on my sister.”

_This aside._

Two words, after all the years and tears and other words they’d had to compete with, shouldn’t hurt so much, but they did.

“It’s my job to help, Bell,” she said, and it would’ve been a hell of a lot more effective if she hadn’t nearly tripped over his name.

_Okay, seriously, get a grip, Griffin._

But then the corners of Bellamy’s eyes crinkled and he blew out a short breath through his nose, and Clarke’s heart nearly beat out of her chest at the sight she thought she’d never get to see again—his half-smile. “You never were any good at that.”

She cleared her throat. “At what?”

“Responding to thank yous.”

She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t stand in the hallway, pretending everything was fine. That four years had just melted away, that she was somehow the good guy in this scenario.  

Because she wasn’t.

And there was nothing like Bellamy—Bellamy who loved with his whole being, who had been so broken by her, who had every right to hate her—standing in front of her and offering an olive branch for her to realize that.

_You have to let him go._

“Yeah, well,” she said quickly, shoving her hands into the pockets of her coat, forcing her next words out on a smile. “Add that to the list of things that never changes.”

It worked; she saw the reminder etch its way into his features and he was grounded again. Brought back by the reminder of the years between them. His jaw clenched. “What happened, Clarke?”

She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t keep up the smiling façade with his eyes so close. She tried to keep her tone flippant, as she studied their shoes. “Does it matter?”

He didn’t say anything, and after a moment she risked it, glancing up at him. He was staring at her, trying to see into her. And the walls that she’d built at Mount Weather, they built themselves back up to protect her. To protect him. It took every ounce of control she had, but she turned down the hall. With each step away from him, she felt it slipping away; their second chance circling the drain.

“What did I do?”

His voice was so quiet she almost missed it.

Clarke stopped midstride, her shoes squeaking on the floor. He wasn’t even looking at her, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the linoleum.

_You have. To let. Him go._

"Don't make me say it wasn't you, it was me...” She meant for it to come out as a teasing response, but it sounded hollow to her own ears.

“Clarke, come on.”

“It wasn’t you,” she said sharply, feeling her control slipping. He looked so gutted, so lost, standing in the hallway, thinking back over the same four years that she was.

He looked up at her, and even with the distance between them, she saw the moisture glistening in his eyes. He raked a hand through his hair. “I never tried to hold you back.”

“W-what?” she faltered.

He pushed away from the wall. “That’s what everyone said. That you wanted your career and you thought I was pressuring you to choose me over it.”

He got closer, and she recognized the fear in his eyes, when he continued, voice pleading. “You know I would never do that, right? Tell me that’s not why you left.”

She couldn’t bear it. Bellamy thinking it was his fault, that he’d somehow driven her away, that he was anything less than all she’d wanted. “That’s not what—”

“Then tell me,” he came to stop in front of her. “Just tell me what I did.”

“Bellamy, please, I promise, you didn’t.”

They both stopped.

She didn’t remember moving, but they were both aware that her hand was somehow on his chest, right over where his heart beat, holding him at bay or in place. Bellamy’s eyes were on her hand; then they traced up her arm, her neck, to her face. He shook his head slowly, his eyes still wet. “Clarke, I have to know.”

_Just tell him._

Tell him. Let him know the weight of Mount Weather, let him know the story she’d carried alone. Let him see why she had to leave, let him understand that she had no choice.

She saw hope flood his features before she’d realized she was about to tell him. It was all the encouragement she needed.

But just as she opened her mouth, a reverb echoed through the corridor.

“Can I have external triage unit to the receiving bay, please?” The speakers buzzed and Clarke’s head snapped towards them. “External triage team.”

_External triage._

The code for mass casualties.

Bellamy was here. Bellamy was here, he was real, he was listening. Waiting, hoping. She pulled her hand away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, before turning down the hallway, forcing her feet to run, and her head to not look back.

\-----

A bomb at a local middle school. 

The receiving bay was quiet when Clarke strode in; everyone waiting. Clarke looked around, assessing her team—she was the attending surgeon, and she had two residents on hand, with three more being called in, seven interns, nurses pulled from every department that could spare them. Madi was back again; Jasper must’ve gone home.

“Each of you, take a room,” she called to her residents, motioning for the interns to gather around her. “Listen to me,” Clarke bit her lip, considering her words before deciding honesty was the best she could give them. “This is hard, okay? It’s not a procedure you’ve prepped for. Look at injuries and think in technicalities; the minute you associate those with a child, you lose your edge. You can’t get emotional. If absolutely necessary, call one of the residents or me, but for starters, each of you take a stall. We’ve got twenty-six kids coming in, three adults; nurses will help stabilize, but you’ll be making the calls. I don’t have the luxury of supervising each of you, but you don’t need it. You can do this.”

They looked at each other and Clarke could guess what they were feeling. Still reeling from the news of the bomb, ready to put their skills to the test, horrified by the circumstance. Terrified that they might not be prepared, hoping beyond belief that they would be. 

“Security will try to help keep your area clear, but it’s going to be crazy in here for a while. Handle it. If you feel it getting to you, get out; I won’t have you in my OR if you can’t hold it together. Come back when you’re composed. Got it?”

They nodded.

The alarm sounded over the bay door, and Clarke stepped forward.  She heard the echo of the wheels on the pavement outside, and the frenzy as the interns moved to their stalls, pulling the sheet partitions up. The first stretcher rolled in, a girl in a pink sweatshirt and pigtails, an oxygen mask over her face and her left leg missing from the knee down.

The red lights, the sirens, the breathing of her interns; everything was slow motion.

And Clarke grabbed the side of the stretcher, steering it into her stall and smiling into the girl’s dilated eyes. “My name’s Dr. Griffin, sweetie,” she said, her voice firm, “You’re going to be okay.”

After the girl with the pigtails, it was a boy with the metal leg of a desk lodged in his chest; after him it was the bus driver with abdomen hemorrhage and a middle ear rupture. Then a collapsed lung and globe rupture, then another amputation, then bomb fragments lodged in someone’s spine. She lost track of the number of concussions, crushed bones, flash burns, smoke and dust inhalation. One of the interns slipped out the back door when he thought no one would notice and came back five minutes later with red-rimmed eyes, Clarke barely registered Madi wiping her hair out of her face with a bloodied glove and whispering time of death—15:41. The hours passed and everything blurred into a flurry of morphine and stitches, IVs and ripped clothes, burned hair and missing fingers.

And then she turned and called for the next patient, it was a middle aged man with a suspicious looking wart on his arm—they’d made it through the victims. She called one of the residents to take care the man, and she started checking into the stalls. The interns were exhausted, but mostly fine. Clarke found the kid who’d run out, and thanked him for leaving, made sure he knew she meant it. She’d rather be down a pair of hands than have a paralyzed surgeon on the floor.

She lifted the code, and sent the interns to wash their faces and change into a fresh pair of scrubs.

_They made it._

Shifts like this were never easy; they were straight up awful when you stopped to think about it. But her interns had handled themselves well, and she made a mental note of the six of them as they walked away together to the on-call room.

_Wait, there were seven._

She checked each of the stalls, and found her in the last one, sitting on the stripped bed, legs dangling off the side and eyes unblinking.

“Madi?”

The girl jumped. “Dr. Griffin!” she drew in a quick breath, sliding off the bed, her voice unnaturally bright. “Sorry, I guess I just zoned out there a minute.”

Clarke watched the girl for a moment, noting her hands pressed against her sides and her pulse ticking in her throat. The blood on her arms, on her scrubs, in her hair.

“First things first,” Clarke said gently, “We get out of these.”

She peeled off her gloves and mask, pleased when the girl mirrored her actions without question. Madi looked slightly alarmed when Clarke pulled off her jacket as well, folding it under her arm.

“The people who need to know, know who we are,” Clarke explained, “And everyone who doesn’t would just be scared by the stains.”

Madi’s mouth formed a silent _oh_ , and she followed suit.

Clarke tilted her head towards the door. “Come on.”

They passed through the emergency room, through the lobby. Clarke didn’t stop when she got to the end of the building, crossing through a corridor to get to the rehabilitation ward of the hospital. And then they were at the atrium.  

As far as hospital atriums went, it was pretty standard: the glass only went up for two floors, before giving way to concrete after that. And it was more bushes and vines than it was weeping willows, but there were a couple of taller trellises, and this place was Clarke’s sanctuary. There was a figure-eight loop you could follow, pass a bench and a bird fountain, and pace until your heart was still enough to go back inside.

_You’d never know it was golden hour._

For all the hurt inside the hospital, for all the chaos and craziness they’d just worked through, out here the plants were tinged with yellow and the air was still warm from the afternoon sun. Clarke started on the path and Madi fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for several minutes, then Madi let out a shaky breath.

“Her name was Anya,” she said, her voice cracking, “She was eleven.”

Clarke didn’t say anything, just waited for Madi to continue. 

“I…I can’t decide if it’s better or worse that I didn’t do anything wrong. Like, I did what I was supposed to do, and I did it right, but her heart still stopped.” Madi’s voice was thick. “I guess I never knew what it meant when someone says ‘it’s out of your hands’. She was there one minute and gone the next and there was nothing I could do but let her go.”

They walked in silence for another minute before Clarke sighed. “Charlotte.”

Madi turned to look up at her, confused. “What?”

Clarke kicked a stone off the pavement. “My first patient who coded. Her name was Charlotte. She was twelve.”

They completed the loop before Madi spoke again. “What did you do?”

“I called in a favor, then another. Traded with the other interns, and didn’t work the ER for almost a month. I did sutures and lab work and anything else I could, to avoid having someone’s life in my hands. Waited for the guilt to go away, or at least fade,” Clarke paused. “My director eventually caught on. He scheduled me in the ER for every shift for nine weeks.”

“That seems kind of excessive.”

“I thought so too, at first, and told him so. He asked me something, and I’m going to ask you the same thing. A patient comes to you, right, and they tell you something’s wrong. Do you hit him with some morphine and send him home? Or do you find out what’s wrong, and attack it?”

Madi’s expression shifted slightly; she knew where this was going. “You fight it.”

“Exactly. Hurt, whether it’s sickness or guilt, isn’t something you just push away. You don’t ease pain, Madi, you overcome it. Whatever comes up against you, you look it in the face and you say ‘I am stronger’ and then you prove it. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t, but you always fight.”

There would always be the voice in the back of her mind that asked if she were really doing any good, if she could make up for the lives she’d lost with all the lives she saved. Clarke knew it because she heard it to. But she was used to it; she and the voice were old friends, and she needed Madi to listen to her over that voice. 

“But what if,” Madi’s voice was small, “What if I’m not stronger?”

Clarke wished there were a trite answer, a procedure you could perform or a switch you could flip to make yourself invulnerable to their losses as surgeons, but there wasn’t. “That’s not an option. But...for what it’s worth, I think you are.”

Madi almost smiled.

They heard the sound of the door closing, followed by a wheelchair and footsteps; Clarke was almost relieved that it meant company. She hadn’t wanted to leave Madi out here alone, but didn’t want her to force her to process all her emotions from back inside the hospital. They rounded the corner and Clarke looked up curiously, and the blood drained from her face. 

Octavia’s head was tilted back into the sunlight, and Bellamy looked like it was all he wanted from life, but it didn’t stop Clarke from thinking she wanted to slap both of them. She ran the rest of the path to stop in front of them, raising her hands in front of her. “What is this?” she asked, incredulous. 

“Clarke!” Octavia at least had the grace to look guilty, but Bellamy looked immediately guarded.

“Calm down, Clarke, O just needed some fresh air.”

She was trying not to overreact, she really was. Clarke pulled her hand over her face, looking between the siblings. “Octavia, was I unclear this morning?”

Octavia’s hand was fiddling with the tie on her hospital gown. “You said I wasn’t ready, yet.”

Clarke folded her hands in front of her, working at keeping her voice steady. “And by ‘yet’, you assumed I meant by a few hours and not a few days?”

“It’s not a big deal, Clarke,” Bellamy interjected, looking annoyed, “I lifted her into the wheelchair, and we’ve only been out for a couple of minu—”

“A couple of minutes is more than enough to do some serious damage.”

“I felt fine, Clarke,” Octavia interjected, “Don’t get mad at him.”

Clarke’s head snapped down to Octavia. “Felt?”

“Feel,” Octavia said quickly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine; you had a major surgery three days ago! And I get that you don’t want to tell your brother how much pain you’re in, but there’s being stoic and then there’s asking for recovery complications.”

And of course that was Bellamy’s cue to step in. “Hold on—”

“You,” Clarke looked up to him, “Don’t get to say a word. I know you’re exhausted and I know you’re emotional but if you were thinking straight, you would’ve never let her out of that bed.”

Bellamy bristled. “I’m fine.”

Clarke balked at him. “Bellamy. She has screws holding her skull together. She cannot walk on her own, cannot stand on her own. We’re monitoring her oxygen levels, for goodness’ sake, and you thought it was okay to bring her outside??”

Bellamy shifted on his feet, crossing his arms defensively. “Look, maybe we would’ve asked you, but seeing as you weren’t around—”

“She was a little busy pulling bomb fragments out of children.”

She’d forgotten about Madi, until the intern was right next to her, snapping at Bellamy. The Blakes both turned in shock, and Clarke was sure her expression was no less surprised. Bellamy was the first to recover, looking back at Clarke, and noticing the stains on her wadded up coat. Octavia’s eyes flitted down at her lap, picking at her gown again.  Clarke rolled her neck; none of them were in a solid enough place emotionally to deal with this. 

“Madi,” she said at length, “Can you walk these two back? They're in 337; watch her on the elevators, she'll probably get some nausea and vertigo. Check her oxygen levels and switch out her bandage once you're back at the room; keep her head elevated, but she needs to be sleeping asap.”

Madi nodded shortly, and Bellamy hesitated. “Clarke, I—”

“Go home, Bellamy,” She held up a hand, weary. “Do whatever Madi says, and go home. I have patients I need to look in on, but I’ll check in on O in an hour or so. You’d better not be there when I come back.”

She didn’t wait for a response, before brushing by them and back into the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a long one! And yes, yes, this is going to be more than three chapters; I'm thinking probably five? In my defense, it's been four years though; they can't just have one fight and be fine!! Tell me what you like and what you don't and also please give me ideas for Raven--I want her to be in the story, but I don't know if she'd be a surgeon?? Thanks fam ♥


	4. The Diner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SO sorry for how long this took me to get this chapter written!! Thank you to EVERY one of you who left me a comment encouraging me or asking for the next update; I so appreciate your patience. Hope it's worth it!! Let me know :)

The retreat back to 337 was quiet.

From his position pushing the wheelchair, Bellamy could hear Octavia’s controlled breathing. Inhale for five seconds, exhale for seven; it was a tidy trick to focus on anything other than the pain you were in. Hell, he was the one who’d taught it to her.

The intern’s shoes squeaked on the linoleum floors, and her words echoed in Bellamy’s mind.  

_She was a little busy pulling bomb fragments out of children._

He should’ve known something was wrong.

Should’ve realized that the woman who hated wrinkles had her coat stuffed under her arm, wrapped over itself in an attempt to hide the stains. Should’ve noticed that her eyes were a bit too wide, or that her hands were never still. But he hadn’t, and now he was as good as banished.

_As well as feeling like an all-around heel._

They made it back to the room, and Bellamy lifted Octavia out of the wheelchair. The intern was on the other side of the bed, feeding wires and tubes into his sister. Bellamy checked his phone; Lincoln was parking the car and would be up soon. He’d run back to his apartment to pick up a change of clothes for Octavia and grab a shower.

_Lincoln probably would’ve let O rest._

He cleared his throat. “She’s okay, right?”

The intern didn’t look up, but nodded shortly. “She’ll be fine. Dr. Griffin was right, though, she needs to rest.”

_Yeah, Dr Griffin is always right, isn’t she._

“Of course,” he said aloud, not really resenting the intern for it.

He kept by the bed, watching the her motions as she continually moved around his sister. At length, she sighed.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you; it wasn’t professional. I’m sorry.”

He was surprised by the apology, especially since her outburst had been pretty fairly warranted. Bellamy looked at the intern; she couldn’t have been much older than Octavia. Yet she was the one looking after his sister. He shrugged. “Probably wouldn’t have listened to Clarke otherwise.”

The girl’s head came up and she frowned slightly at him. “Are you guys friends or something?”

“Or something,” he said noncommittally, and the girl went back to her patient.

Octavia’s eyes were closed and her breathing had evened out slightly; she was already slipping off to sleep. The intern motioned for him to move, strapping O’s legs back into the SCDs.

“It’s not really my business,” she said conversationally, “but you really should go home. You can’t help her by just being here and not sleeping.”

“I can’t just leave her here.”

She seemed to be weighing her words carefully. “If you’re friends, or whatever, with Dr. Griffin, then you know she was serious.”

“About Octavia needing to rest?”

“About you needing to not be here when she gets back.”

“So have her call security on me,” Bellamy said, but even he could hear the petulance in his voice. She was right, and Clarke had been right; he was exhausted. That didn’t mean he had to like being told it.

“Okay, again, it’s not my business,” the intern turned from the bed, a hand coming to her hip as she turned to face Bellamy, “but if you won’t leave for you, or for your sister, then leave for Dr. Griffin. You have no idea what the last shift has been like for her, and she really needs to know that you won’t be here.”

She didn’t wait for a reaction, just casually told him that his presence was making it worse for everybody involved, and quietly stepped around him to leave the room.

And, of course, he couldn’t be mad about it, because she was right.

Lincoln came in a moment later, and Bellamy remembered to move. He mumbled some excuse about needing food that wasn’t hospital issued, and tried not to take it personally that Lincoln looked relieved that he was leaving.

He went home.

He closed his eyes for a moment and when he blinked, it was five hours later.

Five hours that he hadn’t been there for Octavia, five hours that Lincoln had to be solely responsible, five hours that he’d taken it easy while the world kept turning.   
And sure, part of him knew he was being irrational, but that didn’t stop him from taking the fastest shower of his life before getting back in the car to head to the hospital.

Loathe as he was to admit it, he did feel better.

The world wasn’t hazy, or too loud, and the ache behind his eyes had somewhat abated. He still felt like he was existing in a permanent state of worry for his sister, and he’d be lying if he said that being in the same hospital, under the same roof, as Clarke was affecting him.

He sat in the parking lot, his hands on the wheel of the car, delaying the inevitable for a moment longer.

When he’d picked up her call, he’d known her voice in an instant. She’d only had to say his name and...Bellamy pressed a hand over his face. It all came back in that moment.

She’d been traveling a lot for her internship with Mount Weather Hospital; they really only saw each other on weekends, but it still felt like they were inseparable. She always managed to remember which classes he had essays due in, which courses he was TAing for, when he had a difficult team for a group project. No matter what her schedule was like, she made time for him, and he knew he was the luckiest man alive.

And then he wasn’t.

He hadn’t worried at first; he’d known she was working on some big project at the hospital. Then he realized how long it’d been since she’d replied to a text. She ignored his calls. He went to her apartment, saw her car parked out front and her shadow inside, but she was silent when he knocked on the door for the better part of an hour. When he went to Mount Weather directly, security hadn’t let him into the building.

And just like that, she’d erased herself from his life.

As he thought through it all, Bellamy’s hand traced his wrist; the white ink was all but invisible, but he knew the curve of her handwriting by heart.

_Together._

It’s what they’d written for each other, chosen for each other, spoken over each other. An inside joke and a promise, a whispered hope and an unspoken commitment. No matter how long, how far, or how difficult, they were in this thing for each other. Together.  

It’s why he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of the ring.

She didn’t know he’d gotten it, so it wouldn’t have hurt her any if he’d returned it. And it wasn’t like he was holding out hope for their future, since she’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want one. Selfish though it was, Bellamy just couldn’t stomach the thought of someone else wearing Clarke’s ring: taking engagement photos in it, planning a happily ever after that should’ve been theirs. It was tucked in the top drawer of his dresser, along with a sketch she’d made one day of him reading, and a couple of polaroids.

So, yeah, her voice on his phone in the early hours of the morning had been a pretty big shock. Followed by the news that his baby sister was in trouble, followed by the most frantic drive of his life, followed by the discovery that yes, O, was okay, but only because the best surgeon in the country—who also just so happened to be the woman who broke his heart—had saved her life...it was a lot to take in.

Bellamy leaned forward, releasing his wrist, resting his head on his crossed hands on the steering wheel.

_She was so close._

After he’d seen Octavia, when he and Clarke had been in the hallway, she’d been so close to telling him why. He’d seen it on her face, her expression shifted when she realized that she was finally going to let go of whatever had ripped her from him in the first place.

And he wasn’t mad that she had to answer the page; the needs of the hospital definitely outweighed the needs of Bellamy Blake, but it still hurt. Because their last goodbye, he hadn’t known it was their last. It was just her leaving for her internship, ‘see you next weekend’ and texts well into the night. This time, it felt final when she left him in the hallway.

He let himself out of the car, crossing the lot quickly to get into the building. It was dark now, well into the night, and Bellamy wondered if he’d have to go around to the main entrance of the hospital, since they closed off some of the other doors for security’s sake. Before he could test out the doors, they whooshed open, and Bellamy step faltered as Clarke walked out.

She didn’t see him at first.

She was rummaging around in her bag, probably looking for keys or something, her hair falling into her face and her steps certain as she walked the path she walked most days. She must’ve felt someone watching her, because her brow furrowed slightly and she looked around, freezing when she saw him.

“Bellamy,” she said softly, surprised. She recovered quickly, a hand leaving her purse to brush her hair out of her face. “Madi told me you left; I’m glad you got some rest.”

_That must be the intern._

He nodded stupidly, not quite sure how to respond to that with something other than ‘yeah, now that I’ve gotten some sleep I won’t mess up my sister’s recovery anymore, sorry about that’. He cleared his throat. “Your shift is over?”

“Yep.”

“How’re you holding up?”

He hadn’t expected to ask the question, and she clearly hadn’t been expecting it either. She lifted a shoulder, looking over the parking lot. “As well as can be expected.”

_Right. Bombs and surgeries and all._

Bellamy could’ve kicked himself for opening that door, but since the opportunity presented itself, he leaned into it.

“Listen, about earlier...” he lifted a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing the knotted muscles there. “I shouldn’t have fought you. Or taken Octavia out.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she said quietly, with no malice, just an acknowledgment that his actions hadn’t been ideal and that time hadn’t changed their severity. “But I also should’ve clarified with Octavia. I could’ve guessed she’d try to talk you into it.”

_How could she possibly spin this to be her fault?_

“That’s not your fault; you couldn’t have known she would try.”

“Bell, she’s got you around her finger,” Clarke sighed, her voice equal parts amused and tired. Mostly tired.

“Okay, maybe she does. But just let me apologize, okay?”

Something shifted and Clarke shook her head, vehemently. “You’re not the one who—” she caught herself, her jaw twitching as she still looked over the lot, around at the cars, anywhere but at him. “It’s okay. She’s okay; don’t worry about it.”

They stood in silence, the flourescent lights of the hospital behind Clarke like a halo and the dark behind him like a blanket.

She looked exhausted.

The kind of weary that came from pushing past tired, from refusing to rest, or to slow down. The kind of heavy that came with more than physical exertion, that weighed on you when your mind whirled no matter how much you wanted it to be still. The kind where your heart was heavier than your eyes.

He knew he should let her go.

But the words spilled out of him, slipped over his tongue and past his lips. “When was the last time you ate?”

Clarke blinked. “Today,” she said defensively, and Bellamy knew he was right about this. She was always so good at taking care of everyone else, and so terrible at taking care of herself. He had no business asking, and she didn’t owe him an answer, but he tilted his head in a challenge.

“When and what?”

Clarke shifted on her feet. ”I had a granola bar this morning.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It was one of those with two in the package,” she tried half-heartedly, but Bellamy shook his head.

“Clarke, you need to eat.”

“Yeah, well, I’m coming off a 48 hour shift, Bellamy, there are lots of things I need.”

He waited for her to follow that up with something, anything, but she sighed to herself, and pulled her phone out of her bag. She clicked a few things and then stuffed it in her back pocket, settling back on her heels. She looked up at him, not surprised that he was still there, but hoping he’d gone inside.

“Go upstairs, Bell,” she said tiredly.

He should. But as he walked past her, he realized she wasn’t moving forward into the parking lot. He took a step back, and they were shoulder to shoulder; he looked over at his and down at her.

“What’re you waiting for?”

She pursed her lips. “Just waiting.”

“Clarke.”

She was quiet for a moment, deciding if it was worth fighting or not. “My car’s in the shop; I called an uber.”

Bellamy checked his watch. “It’s 9pm on a weeknight.”

“9:08, I think.”

“You’re going to be waiting for like 20 minutes.”

“Brian and his Honda Civic will be here in 17.”

Obviously Clarke was an adult; she could take care of herself. And there were much more dangerous places to be than steps from a hospital entrance. But Bellamy still couldn’t leave her there.

“I forgot something in the car,” he muttered, turning from the door. He felt her eyes on him as he disappeared between the lines of cars, heading for his rover. When he pulled up to the loading zone, it took her a moment to realize it was him; he leaned across the front seat to open the door.

“What are you doing?” Clarke actually stepped away from the door as it opened, which was the opposite of what she was supposed to do.

“ _We_ ,” he said, emphasizing the word, “are going to get you something to eat, and then get you home safely, without Brian and his Honda Accord.”

“It’s a Civic,” she said offhandedly. “Bellamy, you don’t have to do this.”

_Yeah I do._

She’d saved his sister’s life, she’d been through a hell of a shift, and she was not about to stand outside for twenty minutes while someone came to drive her home.

He settled back into the seat. “Come on, Princess, just get in the car.”

He hadn’t meant to say it, his old nickname for her, from back when things were simple and the sun rose and set on the girl standing uncertainly outside the rover.

She got in the car.

He drove to a dinner near the middle of town, something with red leather seats and the promise of food with more grease than flavor. She looked like she wanted to protest, but he stopped the car, and she got out.

The place was pretty empty, not surprisingly so; it was after the dinner rush, and before the Last Call rush. A waitress led them to a table in the middle of the diner, set two sweating water cups down on the table, and whirled away with a promise to be back to take their order soon.

They didn’t say anything.

The waitress came back; Clarke ordered a number four combo and Bellamy ordered a black coffee.

When the waitress left this time, Bellamy acknowledged that he couldn’t play with the paper of his straw wrapper forever, and chanced a look at Clarke. She was folding her wrapper into small squares, lining them up in a row.

“So,” he cleared his throat, trying to think of anything he could say that didn’t have to do with the hospital or their breakup, “What’s in a number four?”

Clarke brushed all the squares into a pile. “No clue. Everything’s going to taste like chalk, so I just picked a number.”

“That’s the spirit,” he muttered and Clarke looked up at him, her expression softening.

“Sorry. I’m not great company when I’m running on empty.”

They fell into silence again, and this time it was Clarke who broke it. “Are you in trouble with your dean?”

Bellamy tried to think about why he would be, but drew a blank. “Should I be?”

“For bailing on the guest lectures in Polis. When I called the other night, you said you were doing a series.”

_Oh, that._

Bellamy shrugged. “Not really. Family emergencies get you some slack. I cancelled my regular classes this week, and next week I should be able to get back to them.”

“Is it a good group of students this semester?”

“It is yeah,” he smiled, in spite of himself, leaning back in the booth, “It’s nice teaching upperclassmen. They’re there because they want to be, not because they need a History credit for their degree.”

“You mean there are people on this green earth who genuinely don’t care about the Siege of Alesia?”

Her tone had been nothing but natural, but her eyes were sparkling. He recognized that look, it was when she was proud of herself for a little joke. It was usually at his expense, but he had never minded. He still didn’t.

“Um, excuse you,” he drew himself up with fake gravitas, “The last vestige of Gallic independence in France and Belgium is nothing to scoff at.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “It was a spitting match.”

Bellamy’s jaw actually dropped. “What do you...how do you...how could you possibly even make that comparison?”

“Don’t have an aneurysm, Professor Blake,” she said, looking amused. “It’s just textbook: _you have 4 times as many soldiers? Well I’ll build a wall! And then another! How do you like them apples??_ ”

Bellamy snapped his jaw shut. “That is certainly _a_ perspective to have on one of the greatest military campaigns of history.”

“Spitting match,” Clarke said confidently. “I stand by it.”

Bellamy was saved from having to respond by the waitress returning with Clarke’s food and a pitcher of coffee that she set on the table for Bellamy, gesturing at an upturned mug at the end of the table. He righted it, dunked some scalding coffee into it, and watched with ill-disguised curiosity as Clarke poked at whatever deep-fried meat was hidden under a glop of gray gravy. She very stoically dipped the edge of her fork into the mixture and tasted it carefully, her expression blank. “How is it possible that it literally doesn’t taste like anything?”

“Come on, I bet it tastes like Americana.”

Clarke snorted, but she picked up her knife to eat in earnest. “You’re not wrong.”

Bellamy’s hands settled around the mug and tried not to stare.

He was sitting across the table from Clarke. Clarke Griffin. Clarke almost-Blake.

_Don’t torture yourself, Blake, you have no way of knowing if that could’ve happened._

Completely unaware of his inner dialog, Clarke looked up at him, turning her plate sideways. “Fry?” she offered.

_It would’ve._

He took one, and nearly burned his tongue on it, but didn’t really notice. It was like chewing sand, and he coughed. “Okay, so this is objectively awful.”

“Dunk it in the gravy,” Clarke said dryly. “I can’t say that it helps, but it goes down easier.”

He made a face, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to steal any more of your dinner.”

“How magnanimous of you,” she said sarcastically, clearly aware that it was just an excuse to not try the gravy.

And that’s how the rest of the dinner went: both of them doing their best to pretend it was normal, Clarke slipping easily into the way they were, and Bellamy’s heart wrenching every time he caught onto it.

It wasn’t until they got back out to the car that he realized he didn’t know where she lived now. It caught her off guard too, that though their hearts might recognize each other, there was so much more between them now.

They drove to her address in silence.

He pulled to a stop in front of her house, looking up at the house and the carefully manicured lawn. The rover shut off quietly, and they sat in the sudden stillness, uncertainty thick between them.

Bellamy didn’t know how to ask, other than to just cut straight to it. “You were going to tell me earlier,” he said quietly.

He heard her sharp exhale, and knew that she understood exactly what conversation he was referring to.

“Yeah,” she said carefully, “But maybe we were interrupted for a reason.”

“What could that reason possibly be?”

“That maybe...maybe it’s best to leave well enough alone. Most people would have moved on by now, right? Why...why can’t we?”

“We’ve never been most people.”

They hadn’t.

Not when they first started together, not when they were everything together, not when they were broken apart. They had never been just like everybody else.

She licked her lips, and when she spoke, her voice was small. “Bellamy...please. Isn’t it enough that I left?”

_It should be._

It should be enough to say she was heartless, she’d never loved him like he’d loved her, like he was blind. But it couldn’t be true, and he had to know what was stronger than the word branded on their wrists.

He shook his head, turning in the seat to face her. “It was never enough. And I didn’t get to ask why four years ago, so I am now.”

Clarke fidgeted in her seat. “Bellamy, neither of us have slept; maybe we could wait—”

“I tried,” he interrupted, his voice cracking out of him, sharp. “For four years, Clarke. I waited, and I wondered, and tried to forget and never did. We do this, now.”

He looked over at her; her lips parted and he was shocked at the depth of emotion in her eyes, reflecting the street lights.

She shook her head, almost violently. “Th-there’s no coming back from it, Bellamy. Please. I could barely stand you hating me without knowing, I don’t know what I could do if you knew why.”

He let out a quick breath, almost a laugh. “If only I could’ve hated you.”

He meant it.

If only he could’ve channeled everything between them into anger, into resentment. Instead, it had just hurt, just ached, more than any physical torment. Just twisted inside of him, just lay dormant, just crippled him. It was time he laid it to rest.

Her eyes darted between his, his words echoing around the car, and he watched it happen: her face shuttered. She completely closed herself off, looked down at her lap, and when she lifted her eyes again, they were dry.

“I guess I should start with what you know,” she said, and her voice was completely flat. “The internship with Mount Weather. It was...it was never supposed to end how it did.”

He bit his tongue on that one and she continued.

“The first few months at the program were amazing. So amazing. I felt like I was learning so much, and it was crazy, that the work I was helping with was actually saving lives. It wasn’t like i was setting people’s broken wrists, I was in surgeries, watching as people’s lives were handed back to them. It was incredible. And then there was the Reaper Initiative.”

She said it hesitantly, and he told himself not to clam up. The reaper virus had long been a sensitive subject for him, since it had claimed his mother. But so far, Clarke was right—this was all stuff he knew.

“That was incredible too, at first. We had lab days, days when we wouldn’t even scrub in, and spend hours in one of the labs in the hospital basement. One day,” she broke off, shaking her head slightly. “It was so stupid. One day, I needed some more syringes. Syringes, they’re a dime or dozen, especially in a hospital. Only there weren’t any in our store room. I couldn’t find any, anywhere, and I remembered there was this one room I’d never been in, down in the basement. I knew it was a certain security clearance, but I figured they probably just kept some of the higher grade pain killers there, maybe some cultures or something.”

Bellamy watched her carefully. Though her voice stayed steady and unaffected, he saw her pulse quicken in her neck. She swallowed forcibly.

“There were our cultures, alright. But they were alive. Reapers, stacked in cages like cattle, skin almost see through. They were keeping them there, Bellamy, keeping them there to—”

She broke off, looking out the window, her facade shattered.

Bellamy’s mind was racing. “To keep making the vaccine?” he asked finishing the question for her.

“What?” Clarke looked back distractedly, and Bellamy read the confusion in her face. She wasn’t sitting in the car with him; he knew she was miles away, walking into that storeroom for the first time. She blinked quickly, trying to dispel the images he knew were swimming in front of her. “No, the vaccine had been made. We’d been making it for years at that point. The Reapers were for the antidote.”

The antidote.

The one that she had made.

Bellamy felt sick. She couldn’t have, his Clarke would never...

“We used them,” she said slowly, and he looked up to find her eyes on him. She had to see how it was affecting him, the knowledge that the woman he had loved had literally used human sacrifice to further her career. “That’s when I stopped responding. I couldn’t...I wasn’t who you thought I was, Bell. It wasn’t fair to you, and you deserved better.”  

“You should’ve let me decide that,” he said automatically, his head pounding. Could it be true? Could this be who she was? Who she had been?

“I should have,” she agreed quietly, and her eyes flitted down to her lap. “You deserved better. That’s the summary.”

_The summary._

He looked over at her, her averted eyes, her clenched hands, her furrowed brow. Her pulse was still hammering in her throat, and Bellamy’s heart sank.

_The summary. Not the entirety._

“What aren’t you telling me?”

If he hadn’t been convinced before, the pursing of her lips was enough to affirm his suspicions. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, just sat in the shadows of his car, fighting with something inside of her.  

“Isn’t it enough?” she asked eventually, her voice shaking. “Please, Bellamy let that be enough.”

He should.

If it was enough, he had every reason to be done. She’d been a part of something horrible, she’d left him, and that was that. Except that he knew it wasn’t, and that made all the difference. Because he’d been right earlier: his Clarke would never.

“There was a reason,” he said slowly. “There had to be a reason.”

“What if there isn’t? What if I’m just a really messed up person, and Mount Weather was the fastest way to being a resident? I wanted my career, they gave it to me, and I took them up on their offer; end of story.”

“You’re not that person.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. Clarke would never. She would’ve told him, told her mom, done something about the Reaper Initiative. But she didn’t, and that meant that she had a reason. Something bigger and badder than mad science on diseased patients.

But she was shaking her head and she seemed to be stuck, because she just whispered the last thing she said. “Let that be enough. Please.”

“It’s not.”

He wished he was being dramatic. Wished he was pushing her just to get the last word in, but he wasn’t. Because whatever Clarke was hiding, she was still protecting him. Still taking the choice from him, still refusing to let him help.

Well, his shoulders were broad enough.

She was studying him, and she must’ve found something in his face that told her he wasn’t about to be deterred. She took a steadying breath, drawing herself up, and rubbing one of her temples with her palm.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Clarke scrunched her eyes shut, steeling and steadying herself. “Theviriusdidn’tkillyourmomMountWeatherdid.”

She said it in a rush, her eyes still clenched, and Bellamy felt the air leave his body as her words registered. “What?”

“The Reaper Virus was incapacitating people. Nobody could get to it while the victims were still feeding it; they had no way of developing a vaccine. Your mother...Aurora was the first person to reach out to Mount Weather and live long enough for both parties to benefit.”

No.

His mother died of the virus, overworked and exhausted, pouring the last of her life into the savings accounts that had set him and Octavia up.

Clarke was still talking, but it was like she was speaking through a fog; he barely registered her words. “When I found out, I tried to quit. I told Dante it was wrong, that I didn’t want any part of it, no matter what it cost me. But that wasn’t true...I had a price.”

No.

The organization that had killed his mother could not be the same that had taken his future from him. Couldn’t be the one that had set Clarke up to be remembered for history, couldn’t be the one who had given her her career on a platter.

No, no, no.

“What was your price?”

He heard his voice ask the question, but it sounded hollow and distant. It felt like everything was closing in.

“It doesn’t matter,” Clarke said.

“The hell it doesn’t.”

“Bellamy, it—”

“If it was worth being a part of the hospital that took my mother from me, it matters.”

Clarke was silent for a long moment, then she let out a slow breath of air. “You have her blood type, Bell. If I didn’t help, he said they would...I made a deal with Wallace. ‘The antidote, for the Blakes’, that’s all the paper said. Every bit of the person you knew, I signed away. I’d do it again. I…” she broke off, and Bellamy vaguely registered that her voice was thick. “I’m so sorry. About Aurora. About everything. You really did deserve better.”

She got out of the rover.

He heard the door shut, and watched her walk up to her house, slipping through the door once she’d unlocked it, but it was all surreal. He drove home, street lights and street names blurring by as he covered the miles. And yet even as he walked up to his apartment, he couldn’t think above the roaring in his brain.

His mother’s death. Clarke’s distance. His four years. The Reaper Antidote. Diner gravy. Octavia’s accident. Mount Weather. His blood type.

His mind was kept throwing everything from the last week and the last four years into a dischord of events and hurt and confusion, and it all culminated in 5 words.

_The antidote, for the Blakes._

So now he knew why she left.

And he had to figure out what to do about it.     

 


	5. The Atrium

_The parlor they’d chosen was unassuming enough_ — _black and white tile floors, brick walls, wooden stools for the artists and black leather tables for the customers._

_Bellamy had insisted on going first._

_He sat on the edge of the table, legs swinging off the end, gripping Clarke’s hand tightly with the arm that the artist wasn’t holding. The artist had smiled at the two of them when they handed him their designs: two pieces of parchment paper with the same word, written in each of their handwritings for the other’s wrist. He’d assured them that the white ink would barely be visible on Clarke’s paler skin, but even if it was, she could cover it up with a long sleeved tshirt. Nothing to compromise her professionalism as a doctor. He’d asked Bellamy if he was ready, and fired up the iron. It was over in forty minutes._

_Bellamy had gritted his teeth when the needles first pricked his skin, and his grip on Clarke’s hand had been tight. He’d grown accustomed to it quickly, and Clarke couldn’t decide if it was a testament to his pain tolerance or the level of pain involved._

_Then it was Clarke’s turn._

_It stung, and there was a weird sort of ache when she felt the needles come in contact with the bones in her wrist, but nothing unbearable. It helped tremendously that Bellamy was right next to her. He held her hand and tucked her into his side; she rested against him as the artist went to work on her wrist._

_And then the golden Griffin Princess had a tattoo._

_It wasn’t as trite as teenage rebellion, just a reminder that she wanted to have, always and always. Bellamy kissed the top of her head when they were done; they left the parlor cradling their wrists and unable to stop the small smiles on their faces, arms around each other._

_Together._

\-----

“Hey, Doc. Doc... Clarke!”

Clarke jumped in surprise, reining her mind back in from the memory to focus on the patient in front of her. Mercifully, Raven looked amused, wiping sweat off her forehead and gesturing to the parallel bars in the rehabilitation center. “Am I doing these ad infinitum, or are you going to let me stop?”

“Ad infinitum won’t be necessary,” Clarke said quickly. “This time, at least. Although if you keep favoring your right leg, doctor’s orders might just change.”

Raven rolled her eyes, and Clarke smiled in spite of herself. She wasn’t supposed to have favorites, but she definitely did.  She’d operated on Raven about a month ago, a spinal surgery that had managed to save her life but cost her any movement below her left knee. Mentally, Raven was stronger than literally any other patient Clarke had operated on, pulling herself through rehab on sheer force of will. She was still learning to walk with a brace, and Clarke was pleased with her progress.

She set Raven up on another exercise, holding her hands out as a precaution as Raven concentrated on balancing on a wobble board.

“Bend your knees a bit,” Clarke instructed gently. “Trust the brace, Raven. You’ve got this.”

“Of course I do,” Raven gritted out, though her thighs trembled with the effort.

“Of course you do,” Clarke agreed.  

Once Raven hit two minutes, Clarke helped her off the board, handing her a towel and letting her take a quick break. Being in the rehab center wasn’t really a part of her surgeon’s rotation, but it had been two weeks since the bombing; things had slowed down throughout the rest of the hospital.

Raven chugged half a water bottle, then came up for air, regarding Clarke with a long look. “Are you going to make me ask?”

“Ask what?”

Raven snorted. “Okay, so you are. Who is she?”

Clarke frowned. “She?”

“Or he, I guess,” Raven shrugged. “Anyways, you’ve been distracted the past couple of times I’ve come in this week. Something—someone, more likely—is on your mind.”

_Oh. Yeah, that’s just my ex, whom I hadn’t seen in four years, whose younger sister almost died, who found out I worked for the corporation that killed his mother, and that I did it to protect him and his sister, yet has completely vanished out of my life again. Nothing much._

Clarke cleared her throat. “It’s nothing.”

“Right,” Raven’s voice was thick with sarcasm, “I, too, stare off into space for no apparent reason and look heartbroken any time I forget there are other people around.”

“I do not look heartbroken,” Clarke grumbled.

“Is ‘bereft’ a better word? Distraught? Devastated? Desola—”

“Okay, thank you, Miss Merriam-Webster,” Clarke interrupted.

Raven looked smug, but then she set the water bottle down, tapping it on her knee brace as she bent. “Come on, give me something to focus on other than this.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “You know how people say ‘it’s a long story’ but it’s actually something really short like a bad breakup or friends with benefits?”

Raven’s jaw unhinged. “Clarke Griffin are you hooking up with someone? I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“What? What, no, not at all.”

Raven looked disappointed. “I guess it was too much to hope for.”

Clarke shook her head. “Where I was going with that, was that this is actually a long story.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Yeah, well, good thing it’s not for sale.”

It didn’t make any more sense in her head than it did aloud, but Clarke stood by it and Raven shrugged with indifference. “Okay. So, what’s next, Doc?”

“Now you get back on the wobble board, but balance for four minutes.”

“Piece of cake,” Raven said flatly, and Clarke knew she’d do it. ‘Quitting’ wasn’t really in her vocabulary.

They were just past the three minute mark when she heard the doors to the rehab center swing open, followed by the sounds of a wheelchair. Clarke glanced over her shoulder, then down at the watch on her wrist.

“Hey, O. Lincoln,” she called, turning back to Raven, her arms still out and hovering inches from Raven’s. “Are you early, or is my watch slow?”

“We’re definitely early,” Octavia said, her voice getting louder as she was wheeled closer, “Lincoln got a call like twenty minutes ago; he has to cover for another officer and he’s headed into the station.”

Clarke nodded, counting down the time for Raven’s last seconds on the board, then helping her off. She blinked, turning back to Octavia and Lincoln.

“Wait, if you’re,” she pointed to Lincoln, “leaving, I have to call for a nurse. I don’t have anyone booked to help you with therapy, Octavia, and I’m on call right now.”

“Oh, it’s okay,” Lincoln was kneeling next to Octavia’s wheelchair, locking the wheels and lifting her feet off their rests, “Bellamy’s on his way.”

_He’s what now?_

Lincoln had said it so casually, but she realized both Raven and Octavia were watching her face closely, and she shuttered it immediately. “Um,” she cleared her throat, running a hand through her hair, “Bellamy is coming?”

“I told you something was up,” Octavia hissed, lightly pushing Lincoln’s shoulder.

“Aha,” Raven crowed, looking smugly at Clarke, “And I told _you_ something was up.”

Lincoln lifted his hands in mock surrender, going back to the wheelchair. “Okay, we stand corrected.”

“We certainly do not,” Clarke protested. “Nothing’s going on, I’m just relieved I don’t have to find another nurse when I get called away.”

Raven arched an eyebrow, swinging her head dramatically to look at Octavia. “That sounded very convincing to you, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Octavia nodded seriously. “Clarke is very much okay and not at all affected by my brother.”

“Oh my god,” Raven said reverently, looking back at Clarke. “You got involved with a patient’s brother?”

“This is so far from professio—”

“In her defense,” Octavia broke in, “it’s more like she was involved with my brother, and then I ended up a patient.”

Raven looked positively delighted. “Okay so when we say ‘involved’ we mean—”

“Are you two done deciding my life needs narration?” Clarke interjected, glaring at both of them, and then at Lincoln on principal, just because he wasn’t disagreeing with them.

It was to no avail; Raven looked contentedly between Clarke and Octavia, and shrugged. “If we’re cohosting here, my name’s Raven.”

“Octavia,” said O, lifting her chin since they were too far across the room to shake hands. “What’re you in for?”

“Babe...” Lincoln admonished, and Octavia rolled her eyes.

“I’m not trivializing hospitalization or incarceration; we’ve been over this,” she said, but she still rephrased herself. “What got you in Clarke’s OR?”

“The short answer is spinal surgery.”

“And the long one?”

“It’s long,” Raven reiterated. “You?”

“Craniotomy,” Octavia said casually, pulling a bit of her hair back to show the scar like Clarke had known she would. The fact that it was a practiced motion was telling.  

“Doctor Griffin, to Radiology, please,” a pleasant voice said over the speakers, saving Clarke from having to interrupt the newly minted friendship yet again, “Griffin to Radiology.”

Raven sighed. “Looks like you’re going to have to find a nurse anyways.”

“So it seems,” Clarke headed for the phone in the back of the PT room. She called three nurse stations before someone had an intern standing nearby, and sent him her way.

“Alright, Jasper’s en route,” she announced, turning back to the room. Raven looked disappointed and Octavia kept checking the watch on Lincoln’s wrist, like she wished she could speed it up and just will her brother to appear. But she couldn’t, and Jasper came into the room after a couple minutes; Clarke caught him up on everything he needed to know before heading out herself.

_Not a moment too soon._

It wasn’t that she was avoiding Bellamy...just that she might as well go the rest of her life without seeing him.

Maybe that way she could actually get over him.

 _That’s a big maybe_.

Clarke leaned her head back against the elevator as the floors ticked away, on her way to the Radiology department. She’d moved on once, she’d made herself forget him once, she’d forged ahead in her life once. She could do it again.

The elevator dinged.

She got out on the floor, found the nurse who had paged her. Looked at the x-rays, confirmed what they’d suspected, but needed a surgeon to sign off on. Checked in on her patients that were on the floor. Tried to convince herself that she wasn’t dragging her feet on her way back to the PT room.

“Clarke.”

She was on in the pediatrics ward when she heard his voice and froze.

Yes, hearing Bellamy after two weeks of radio silence was the most inexplicably amazing thing. Yes, it was telling that she recognized it, in the middle of a crowded hospital hallway, with all the din around them. Yes, maybe her heart jumped a little.

But then it plummeted.

Because while separate, those things were all fine, but together—they were in a hospital, they hadn’t spoken since he’d driven her home, and this was the moment he chose to change that—could only mean one thing.

_Something’s wrong in PT._

“Where is she?” Clarke whirled, eyes glancing over him before pushing past him towards the elevator at the end of the hall. Call it cowardice or call it self-preservation; either way, she couldn’t bring herself to stare at him just yet.

_Just yet. Like it hasn’t been two weeks?_

She pressed the buttons hurriedly and the elevator only had to come down two floors; she realized that Bellamy wasn’t beside her. The elevator came and she turned to see him still in the hallway.

“Bellamy,” she called, stepping into the lift and holding the door, “if your sister needs me, some haste would be good.”

He shook his head like he was snapping out of something, then jogged quickly over. She let go of the door, pushed the button for the PT floor and stepped back, crossing her arms in front of her.

“What happened?” Clarke asked calmly, slipping into presiding surgeon mode and staring fixedly at the metal doors. “Did she slip? Was one of the resistance bands too much, did she—”

“Clarke, O is fine.”

She stuttered to a stop. “W-what?”

In her peripherals, Bellamy rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging slightly. “Sorry, I should’ve clarified. When I got to PT, there was some kid there, and he said he didn’t need my help.”

“Jasper?” Clarke’s eyes narrowed. “So then what do you need me for?”

Bellamy let out a short breath, an almost laugh. “That’s the million-dollar question isn’t it,” he muttered.

The elevator dinged and Clarke let herself look over at Bellamy in the moment before the door opened. He was looking at her, and she couldn’t make sense of his expression. Because she read nervousness in his eyes, a sort of apprehension, that shouldn’t be there. For all intents and purposes, she’d been complicit in his mother’s death, and so he shouldn’t be looking at her like he was.

The doors started to close, and Clarke registered that that meant that they’d been open, but she and Bellamy had just been staring at each other. She cleared her throat lightly, sticking out a hand to stop the doors from closing. “Um, this is you,” she said inanely, gesturing to the floor.

Bellamy’s hand was also holding the door back, the doors whooshed out two inches before receding reluctantly. “So you’re not coming?”

“Jasper’s got it,” Clarke said, letting her arm fall. Bellamy’s jaw was working, and Clarke would’ve frowned, if the expression had left her face. As it was, she tilted her head. “Your sister needs you, Bellamy, go on.”

He seemed to consider that, and she could feel his eyes on her profile; she kept hers deliberately fixed on the panel. After a beat, he strode out of the elevator.

_What were you expecting; you literally told him to go._

Clarke pursed her lips, considering the buttons as the doors slid towards each other, unhindered. Her hand hovered between floors five and six when the doors met resistance; Clarke looked up in surprise as Bellamy’s long fingers snaked in the crack between the doors, then pushed them back. He stood in the doorway, looking down at her, not saying a word, his jaw working. The doors tried to close and he held out an arm again, before running a hand through his hair and shaking his head at her.

“Clarke, we have to talk.”

She let out a slow breath, her eyes falling from him. “I don’t know, Bell. I think I’ve said enough.”

“Yeah, well, now it’s my turn.”

His voice was insistent, and she nodded slightly. It was the least she could do; she owed him his peace. As much as she’d like to sit in the silence, as much as she preferred it to the look on his face when he’d tell her how despicable a thing she’d done, as much as it was going to hurt to hear him out...at least it would hurt her. Maybe once it was off his chest, he could heal, and leave the sinking wreck of Doctor Clarke Griffin behind him.

“Right,” she said, willing her voice to hold some semblance of normalcy. “Sorry, of course.”

She didn’t give herself time to consider the emotions on his face, and motioned for him to move aside. She followed him out of the elevator, turning away from the PT room, and down another hall.

Their history at the atrium wasn’t great, but at least she could breathe fresh air and feel the sun on her face when she had to listen to the man she loved tell her he hated her.

Bellamy’s step faltered when he realized where they were going, but he stepped around her to pull the door open. She stepped under his arm, her shoes crunching the gravel of the path as she started along it. A moment later, Bellamy fell into step beside her and Clarke dug her hands into the pockets of her coat, clenching her fists there.

“So, here we are, talking.”   
Bellamy stuffed his hands into his pockets too, his elbows shoving forward as he worked his fingers into the denim of his pants. “Yeah, we’re here.”   
Clarke glanced at him from the side of her eyes, to find him studying the ground in front of them as they plodded along. His brow was furrowed and his jaw was tight; if she had to guess, he had lots to say and wasn’t sure how to start.   
“Octavia’s doing well,” she offered hesitantly, dropping her eyes to their feet on the gravel. “She seemed like—”

“Why didn’t you trust me?”

Clarke stuttered to a stop, her status report interrupted by his sudden question.

_I always trusted you; it’s me I didn’t trust. I couldn’t have you and be strong enough to save you, so I had to push you away._

She cleared her throat, trying to clear the truth away with it. “With the truth about the reaper antidote?” she deferred.

“That. And my mom, and my blood type, and why you left. Probably a couple more things,” he said darkly, the lightness of his cadence contradicted by the heaviness of his words, “but that’s a solid start.”

“It’s not a matter of trust, Bellamy,” she said carefully, “I made decisions, and it was me who should feel their consequences.”

“I guess some things don’t change,” he muttered, and Clarke stopped short on the gravel, her feet stilling even as her pulse continued to race. “After all these years,” she couldn’t keep the sardonic disbelief out of her voice, “we’re having this fight again?”

Bellamy stopped on the pathway as well, looked away from her crossing his arms tightly over his chest. “It looks like it, yeah.”

Clarke blew out a breath, the memory of a dozen parallel conversations from a lifetime ago flooding back to her. He’d always said she was Atlas, trying to carry the world alone, and that she should let him share some of it. And she’d always said that Atlas’ burden was the result of his choices, and hers was the same. Mount Weather was the picture perfect example; if anything, he should finally be able to see why she bore the galaxies the way she did.

Clarke shook her head. “If you think my answer’s changed since then...everything I ever did—going to med school, taking that internship, and yeah, making that antidote—I did so that nobody else would have to bear it. You know that, Bellamy, and—”

“What I know,” Bellamy cut in, his voice raw, “is that nothing you did to spare me, or my family or anyone else affected by your savior routine, cancels out you leaving.”

Clarke’s jaw dropped. “A-are you serious?” she asked, voice incredulous. “You think that me walking away from you, from us, was part of a _savior routine_?”

“If it was anything else, you would’ve let me in.”

A million words danced across her tongue and Clarke bit them all back. They’d had this fight before, and she hadn’t been able to convince him then; now wasn’t about to be any different.

Besides, this was about him getting closure, not him understanding.

“Okay, yeah,” she said, clenching her hidden fists tighter and saying the words she hoped would convince him to release her, move on, heal. “I didn’t want you to have to carry it.”

“Bullshit.”

He said it immediately, so quickly and with such vehemence, and Clarke looked up at him, searching his face.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Bellamy,” she offered weakly. “Do you want me to say I didn’t trust you? That I was just trying to protect you? That I didn’t think you were strong enough? What do I need to say for you?”

“The truth.”

_I loved you. I couldn’t lose you, so I had to give you up._

She clenched her teeth to keep the words inside. “It’s relative.”

“Then it’s not truth.”

_But the truth won’t save you from me._

Clarke shook her hair out of her face, a hasty motion that did nothing to hide the uneasiness welling up inside of her.

_Why can’t you just hate me? Why isn’t any response enough? What is it going to take to get you to get free of me?_

Clarke couldn’t stay still; she stepped around him quickly, continuing determinedly down the path. Maybe if they were walking she could focus on anything other than the fact that she was still breaking him.

“You wanted to talk,” she forced the words out, tossing them over her shoulder, “Then talk, Bell, because it looks like all I’ve got is words you don’t want to hear.”

“It sure beats words that never came.”

She heard him say it, then the crunch of his feet on the gravel as he caught up with her. She felt him watching her, but she kept her head straight ahead. They walked the length of the trail in silence. Clarke realized her fingers felt wet; she relaxed her fists and immediately felt the sting from where her nails had drawn blood on the palms of her hands.

“Okay,” Bellamy said at length, and something in the way he said it made her step slow. His voice had gone hollow, hollow and tired. “If you won’t tell me why, then tell me how?”

_I told you why, but you just won’t listen: I wouldn’t burden you with it and I still won’t._

She swallowed the words back. “How what?”

Bellamy tilted his head back, his hands clenched at his sides as he stared up at the sky. “How you moved on.”

Clarke faltered.

_I haven’t._

_I don’t know if I’ll ever._

But that was another choice of hers, another metric ton on top of Atlas’ shoulders. She bore it so he didn’t have to; that was the only way she got through this.

_I have to let you go._

She had to drive him away, had to set him free, had to stop hurting him. She’d done enough.

And as she was wrestling with the words that she knew she could never say, Bellamy let out a shaky breath, shaking his head.

“Please, Clarke. It’s been four years and clearly I can’t move on; I have to know how—”

“Don’t ask me that.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Hadn’t meant for the words to slip it, especially hadn’t meant for them to come out on the whisper they did, broken and pleading, so at odds with the harsh words she’d been throwing at him to push him away.

Bellamy was surprised by them too, his head snapping down. He stopped on the path, reaching out an arm to stop Clarke too. She turned at his touch, too shocked with herself to do anything else, staring resolutely at his chest, her mind whirling as she tried to think of how to backpedal.

_He can’t know._

Couldn’t know how she felt, how she still felt, how all of her was aching with how much she felt. She had to be stronger, had to bear it.

“Clarke?” he asked hesitantly, his voice deep and heavy.

_I am not weak. I can bear it._

Clarke shook her head quickly, desperately, digging her nails back into her palms.

If she’d been desperate to protect him before, then now she was unhinged, undone by her own mouth and how quickly it betrayed her.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, clenching her eyes shut. “Nothing, I didn’t mean it.”

“Clarke,” he said again, and this time his voice was laced with worry.

_I am not weak._

She registered that his hand was still on her shoulder, and that his thumb had begun to rub circles there.

_I can bear it._

His other hand lifted to her other arm, and he was holding her, grounding her.

_So he doesn’t have to._

She shook her head again, needing to clear it. To stop herself, to control herself, to make the same choice she’d made outside of Dante’s office all those years ago, that whatever she went through, whatever she endured, was worth it, for Bellamy Blake.

“You’re shaking.”

As he said it, she realized it was true; she was trembling with the effort of keeping herself in control. Every tremor of her heart was pushing her towards him and every fragment of her mind was pulling herself back. She could barely draw breath under the strain of it.

_This isn’t happening._

She was supposed to be giving him closure, not battling with herself. There was nothing to battle over: she heralded hurt, heartache, death, and he had to be spared. Bellamy deserved better, always had, and no matter the cost, then or now, she couldn’t let herself crumble.

_I am not weak; I must bear it, so he doesn’t have to._

“Clarke, where are you getting this?” he said softly, and Clarke’s eyes flew open as she realized she’d said it aloud, staring at him in wide-eyed panic.

“Bellamy, please,” she whispered, hearing the tremble on her voice and searching his eyes frantically, “Please. You have to let me do this.”

“Why?”

“Because you have to be happy,” she said, words bubbling out of her, words she’d held in for four years, for 14,650 days, for 351,600 hours. “You have to be happy. You have to be free, you have to have _life_ , Bell, it’s the only way I—”

She clamped a hand over her mouth, needing to stop. Needing the flow of words to cease but needing him to understand.

His eyes darted down to her hand and she saw something flash in them before he looked back into her again.

But he didn’t say anything.

Instead, he lifted his hand from her shoulder, tracing his fingers gently down her arm. She was shaking too much to register anything more than his touch; too busy forcing her lungs to inhale and exhale like she wouldn’t break when he finally released her.

His hands faltered at her wrist, before his fingers circled it, slowly pulling it away from her mouth. His eyes were fixed on her hand as he gently turned it over, and she watched his pulse leap in his throat. It wasn’t until his eyes flicked back up to hers that she realized what he was seeing.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, trying to pull her hand back, the blood on them a betrayal of her struggle.

“You’re not fine,” he said firmly, refusing to let her go. In fact, his other hand slipped to her wrist, pulling it out of the pocket of her jacket, bringing it to between them. His jaw clenched when he saw the red crescents on that palm too.

“Now is not the time for you to be stubborn,” she muttered, glaring at her hands in his, trying to get ahold of herself. She’d been strong for so long; she could stay strong for longer.

“You’re right,” Bellamy said quietly, and his voice was thick. “That time should’ve been years ago.”

Clarke blinked, tilting her head back. “W-what?”

Bellamy’s eyes were clenched shut, and he shook his head. “God forgive me, I should’ve been more stubborn then.”

“When?”

“Four years ago,” he said, his eyes opening, staring into her, “When you needed me.”

Understanding dawned and Clarke started pulling at her wrists again. “No. No, Bellamy, I needed you to be safe, not stubborn.”

“And I just needed you.”

He said it so simply, so sincerely, like every atom inside of him breathed that fact.

“You didn’t. You needed who you thought I was. Not the murderer.”

“You’re not a murderer.”

“Don’t make me say it again, Bellamy.”

“Hey,” he released her hands and a moment later she felt his fingers on her jaw. His touch as light as a whisper, he cupped her jaw, angling her head to look at him. “You did what you had to do Clarke. You saved my sister and me, and you saved the world. You’re not a murderer.”

She wanted to believe him.

Oh how she wanted to.

But her palms were still stinging and she needed the reminder.  

“This isn’t just hemoglobin and erythrocytes, Bellamy,” she said, lifting her hands, watching as his eyes dropped to the blood on them. “Mount Weather stained deeper.”

“But you’re deeper, Clarke,” Bellamy insisted, his hands firm on her face, “You are. You’re there, and you were, and you’re here, and nothing that man did could force you out.”

Clarke opened her mouth, but Bellamy wasn’t done.

“Who you are isn’t what you’ve done. It’s not the lives saved by the antidote of the lives lost to get it. It’s not the deal that killed my mother or the surgery that rescued my sister, it’s you, Clarke, just you. If,” he paused, not like he doubted his words, but like he felt the weight of them, “if you need forgiveness, Clarke, I’ll give it to you: you’re forgiven. Just...let me in. I should’ve insisted years ago. Should’ve convinced you that I needed you like you needed me to be safe. I need you.”

One of his hands left her face, and she felt him a moment later on her wrist again. He turned her hand over, but not to inspect the marks her nails had left. He brushed over the inside of her wrist and Clarke looked down at the path he was tracing.

_Together._

She crumbled.

Her knees gave out and he moved forward to catch her, arms circling her waist as she sagged. Her arms were clutched around his neck and as he lowered them to the ground she realized she was crying. The revelation made her cry even harder, sobs clawing their way out of her as their knees touched the gravel.

Maybe she was weak, after all.

Because in Bellamy’s arms, she felt safer than she had in longer than she could remember. She felt certain, she felt known, and she felt home. But, she’d carried it for so long, carried all of it. Fought through everything, fought for everything, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t strong.

So she was not weak, that part was right.

_Oh._

The part that was wrong, was her having to bear it alone.  

Bellamy’s arms were wrapped around her tightly, his face buried in her neck as he held her, his hand stroking gently up her back. Soon, she’d realize she was dripping blood on his shirt, and their knees would protest from the gravel. Her tears would dry and her throat would dry, and she’d be out of tears. And she’d pull back and look at him, and his arms wouldn’t let her go. They’d pull her tighter, closer, and she’d let them, let him.

Atlas’ shoulders dipped, the weight slipped off of them, and yet the world continued to spin. And Clarke realized that some burdens were meant to be shared, some hearts were supposed to beat together, and some hands were meant to never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow wow wow, this was an emotional one to write, and for all the reasons. because bellarke, because it's my first multi-chap that i've finished for this fandom, because y'all have all been SO sweet and patient. i know the ending isn't quite fluffy, but it fits this story i think, and i've plenty of fluff elsewhere... an enormous thank you to everyone who left me encouraging words, who beta'ed at 1:30am, who assured me i could take my time, and who read this story. thank you ♥


	6. Epilogue

“Why is your sister this way?”

Bellamy chuckled at Clarke’s voice, thick with sleep and muffled through the elbow she had thrown over her face, in a half-hearted attempt to block out the morning sun or the trilling ringing of her phone. The first chord had woken him and he’d cracked his eyes open in time to see her stir beside him.

Beside him.

It was still surreal, even after seven months. Seven months of falling back in love with Clarke Griffin, of learning things that had changed and the things that never would. Of falling asleep with her next to him, waking up to her hair in his face, finding paint stains on his favorite sweatshirts and index cards keeping her place in his textbooks.

Clarke heaved a dramatic sigh, her arm crashing to the nightstand and feeling around for her phone. She lifted her elbow from over her eyes to squint at the screen, then closed out the world again, handing the phone to him.

“I know it’s my phone,” she muttered, “but it’s your sister; you deal with this.”

She slid the unlock screen and hit his face a couple of times as she felt around his face, trying to line the phone up to his ear without looking. Bellamy huffed at her, pulling a hand out from under the covers to switch the phone to his other ear, already hearing his sister talking.

“...so don’t get mad, Clarke, because I need you and my dork brother to be on time for brunch, okay?? It took me three weeks to get these reservations and I know it’s early but it’s the only time today that that they could fit us in and they’re not going to hold a table for four if it’s just Lincoln and I and it’s his birthday so—”

“It’s 7am, O,” Bellamy interrupted, knowing better than to wait for her to take a breath. His voice croaked slightly from disuse, and beside him, Clarke snorted. He held out the free arm between them and she rolled over willingly, nestling into his side. Her movement let cold air slip between the sheets, but then her warm body was pressed against his, fitted into him, her breath in lazy puffs against his chest.

The line was quiet for a moment, then Octavia cleared her throat.

“Did I say ‘dork’?” her voice was higher than normal as she backtracked, “It’s funny, because I meant ‘brilliant’ and ‘favorite’, you know.”

“Yeah, smooth,” Bellamy shook his head. “It’s still 7am though.”

“That’s how a wakeup call works, Bell. You’re supposed to actually wake up.”

“Three hours early? On a Sunday?”

“Ha!” his sister’s voice was triumphant and he moved the phone away from his ear at the volume of her outburst. Clarke giggled; he could feel her shoulders shaking and he lifted the arm that was under her to wrap around her shoulders. Clarke made a contented sound and Bellamy was back to wondering, yet again, why his sister was on the line.

“I’ll bite,” he sighed, “what was that for?”

“We’re meeting at 8, not 10 like usual. If I hadn’t called, you would’ve been late and we would’ve had to give up the table, so aren’t you glad I did?”

“Ecstatic,” he mumbled.

“Just be on time, okay? Please?”

“Or what, you’ll call every ten minutes to make sure we’re on track?”

“Don’t tempt me,” she said dryly.

“Seriously,” Clarke whispered, “Don’t give her any ideas.”

“Is that Clarke?? Is she awake??” Octavia sounded thrilled.

“How could she be anything but awake,” Bellamy deadpanned.

“Well then my work here is done,” Octavia crowed. “See you in an hour, big brother.”

“Octavia—”

But the line was dead already and Bellamy made a face tossing the phone back to the nightstand. “Can you even call it brunch if it’s at 8am?” he muttered.

Clarke shook her head, her eyes still closed. “Yeah, no, I’d say that we’re pretty firmly in breakfast territory.”

“Breakfast should be in bed or not at all,” Bellamy grumbled.

“Spoken like a man who refuses to grab a granola bar on his way out the door,” Clarke mumbled back.

“Spoken like a woman who doesn’t eat for full shifts,” he retorted and Clarke poked his stomach on protest before settling her hand there.

“That’s fair,” she admitted. Her fingers were circling in a lazy infinity shape along his lower stomach and then she stopped, patting him lightly. “Okay. Brunch in an hour...that means we have to get up, doesn’t it?”

“That, or chance the wrath of Octavia when—”

“Oh, look at that, I’m getting up,” Clarke said quickly, shuddering at the alternative. She propped herself up on her elbow, and Bellamy’s head fell back slightly.

Her eyes were laughing, sparkling with amusement, her hair falling in her face from the angle. He lifted a hand to brush the golden strands out of her face, and she leaned into his touch when his fingers settled on her neck after he tucked her hair behind her ears.

“How did I get so lucky?”

He didn’t mean to say it aloud, his voice sounding soft to his own ears, but Clarke didn’t seem to mind. The corners of her mouth turned up slightly and she shook her head at him, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his lips. She pulled back, just a breath, bracing herself on his chest, her eyes tracing over his face from so close.

“Bellamy Blake,” she said softly, simply, and his name from her lips would never fail to be music to his ears. She knew it too, her smile deepening until she bit her bottom lip to contain it. She shook her head at him again. “How am I supposed to want to get out of bed when you look like this and say things like that?”

As was always the case, her smile beckoned his own, and he was grinning stupidly up at his girlfriend when she curled the hand on his chest into a fist and used it as leverage to push away from him.

“Nope, nope, nope,” she said stoically, more to herself than to him, rolling herself to the edge of the bed and swinging her feet off of it. Sitting at the edge of it, she ran a hand through her hair, she looked back at him, her smile somewhat rueful. “Your sister will kill me if we don’t make it to Lincoln’s birthday brunch.”

“Breakfast,” Bellamy said, hearing the petulance on his voice but also feeling the cool morning air where his girlfriend had been a moment earlier. At that price, he was allowed some petulance.

But Clarke was looking fondly at him all the same, so he couldn’t hold onto any bitterness.

She rolled her neck, bringing herself to her feet and padding over to the bathroom. As she brushed her teeth, Bellamy made himself sit up, but that was all the effort he was willing to extend. Clarke dropped her toothbrush in its holder with a clink, wrinkling her nose at her reflection.

“The last thing I want to deal with is having to fix my hair. Can I borrow a baseball cap?”

“Sure,” his feet hit the floor, and he nodded to the door, where a bunch of caps were balanced precariously over the doorstop at the top of it. "Trade places?”

Her shoulder collided with his chest in a way that was too soft to be unintentional when she brushed by him on her way out of the bathroom. He heard a quiet rustling as she went through the stack of them.

“Have you worn any of these before?” she called curiously, and Bellamy had to think about that one.

“The purple one, when Octavia is around to see it. Why?”

“They all look brand new.”

“So wear the purple one,” he called around a mouthful of toothpaste

“The one that says ‘Blake’? Think about that for a second, Bell.”

Clarke and his name? Yeah, he thought about that a lot.

But he bit his tongue, and tried to keep his voice casual before he responded.

“Uh, there might be an old Arkadia one? That’d be in the dresser though.”

“Perfect,” she muttered, and he heard her footfall as she crossed the room again.

He heard the drawer open.

Heard Clarke make a soft sound of success as she found the baseball hat that bore his alma mater’s insignia, then a delighted noise when she saw some of the polaroids he kept in that drawer.

Then a surprised  gasp.

And Bellamy froze in the bathroom, tap running and mind racing as he realized what else was in the drawer.

The ring.

Swearing softly, he shut off the sink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and stepping out into the room again.

Clarke hadn’t moved; she was standing by the dresser, hands hovering over an unmistakable robin’s egg blue box. Her eyes were wide and brimming with questions when she turned to him. Before she could say anything, he reached for her, framing her face in his hands. “I swear, we were going to talk about it before I asked,” he said, not sure what to say or how to even start. “And you weren’t supposed to know that was there and please don’t think I’m being preemptive.”

Clarke seemed similarly speechless, her mouth opening and closing before her eyes fluttered closed. She was holding onto his wrists, grounding herself to him, and he could see her mind racing.

“What is it, babe?” he implored, needing a glimpse inside that mind of hers. “Tell me what to say.”

Her eyes opened, and she looked between his eyes again. “It...it’s an engagement ring?” she asked, her voice cracking.

He nodded mutely, still not able to read through her emotions.

“Bell, it’s been seven months,” she whispered. “And it’s been an amazing seven months,” she added quickly, “but how can you be sure already? After all that I did—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, shaking his head, “we’ve covered this, Princess; don’t take yourself back to Mount Weather.”

She licked her lips and he could see her trying to keep herself calm. “It was four years, Bellamy. Seven months of heaven can’t undo four years.”

“Hey, hey,” he couldn’t help but let go of her face and pull her into his arms. He knew it was the right move when she relaxed against him, her arms clenching around the small of his back as she squeezed him. She wasn’t crying, but he could feel her trying to control her breathing. So he held her, arms wrapped around her, and a hand light on her hair, stroking her, soothing her.

Since that day in the atrium, he hadn’t questioned their future. Nothing it held could rival their past, and now that they were together again, he knew they could face any storm.

But, shit, she wasn’t supposed to find out about it like this.

Because she startled a lot easier than he did, carried a lot more than he did, and still had dark moments where she didn’t believe that he could love her stronger than the ghosts of her past could haunt her. And that was okay. He’d never tried to rush her, never wanted her to feel like she wasn’t healing at the pace he was, and Bellamy’s heart was breaking over the fact that a blue box was hacking away at the careful bridge he’d built between where she was and where he wanted them to be.

“Okay, listen,” he said finally, pulling back and waiting for her to look up at him. “I love you, Clarke. I do. More than anything and everything; you know this.”

She nodded. “I love you, too,” she said feebly.

Bellamy’s heart lept as it always did when he heard her say those words, but he forced himself to focus. “And because I love you,” he said carefully, “I love where we are. And I wouldn’t change a thing about it. I’m not about to rush you into anything, okay?”

Clarke nodded, her brow furrowing. “I know,” she sighed, “I know that. And I guess,” she blew out a long breath, “I guess that’s why I’m freaking out. I know that we’re good, and that you’re good, and that everything should be good, but seeing that box...I don’t know, it reminded me that I’m not as far along as I thought. I know it’s stupid but—”

“Not stupid,” he interrupted, and she rolled her eyes before continuing.

“Okay, irrational. And I know you wouldn’t rush me...why do you have it though, Bellamy? Why would you go out and get a ring when we haven’t talked about anything even close to marriage in almost five years?”

Bellamy’s heart thudded; he had to tell her.

“Um,” he cleared his throat, his hands rubbing circles in her upper arms. “I didn’t buy it in the last seven months.”

For a moment, she was stunned. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, and then they flew open and then her face was pressed into his chest and her arms tightened around him again, like she couldn’t get close enough to him. And he held her, arms moving from her arms to her back again, his head resting on top of hers and he rocked them back and forth, listening to the quick sound of her breathing as she worked through his words.

“You kept it?” she asked finally, her voice small. “You bought a ring before Mount Weather and you kept it? After all those years?”

He nodded, knowing she could feel the motion, not knowing what to say.

She tightened her arms even more.

“Why?”  

That was the question.

Did he say that it was because he never stopped loving her? True as it was, it seemed trite. That it was because he didn’t want anyone else to have their happily ever after? That was also true, but it seemed petty. So he shrugged, knowing she could feel that too.

“It was your ring, Clarke,” he said simply, hoping she’d understand. She squeezed him again, and he figured that meant that she did.

“I don’t deserve you,” she mumbled into his shirt.

“We both know it’s the other way around,” he said honestly, the words rolling off his tongue without him even having to think about it.

Clarke pulled back, her eyes searching. She pursed her lips, her expression amazed. “You really mean that,” she said slowly, and Bellamy nodded.

“Of course.”

“Of course,” she parrotted. “That’s not an ‘of course’, Bellamy. Nobody expects someone to react this way to seeing an engagement ring; anybody else would—”

“We’re not anybody, are we?” he interrupted gently.

She stopped short, a promise of a smile passing over her face, and she looked down. “I guess not.”

He didn’t let go of her, and she didn’t let go of him. They held each other, half dressed and barefoot in the early morning sun, fighting through years of history and insecurity and pressure and normalcy. None of which had ever been their forte. After a while, her breathing slowed to normal and he felt her completely relax against him. She patted his back slightly, an unspoken _okay, I’m okay_.

He kissed the top of her head lightly, not wanting to let her go just yet. After a moment, she let out a soft laugh, her shoulders shaking.

“What now?” he asked, curious.

Clarke turned her head, her nose pressing into him as she shook her head. She pulled back, eyes teasing again. “The purple hat was a little on the nose, earlier, wasn’t it?”

Bellamy groaned, flashing back to the thought of her wearing his name. “Come on, take it easy.”

Clarke grinned. “You handled that incredibly well for someone who has an engagement ring in his top drawer.”

“In my defense, you’re the one whose standards the other caps didn’t live up to.”

Clarke tossed her head, hair flying, and then her expression turned devious. “What if I got you one that said Griffin?”

Now that was a thought.

Especially because it brought him back a handful of years, to when they talked about hyphenating their last names and fought over whether Griffin-Blake or Blake-Griffin was better. His expression must’ve been telling, because Clarke looked terribly smug, even as her eyes darkened as she remembered too. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she teased, “Now you’ll know what you’re getting for your birthday.”

And what was Bellamy supposed to do other than kiss the woman in his arms, who’d always been his, or rather, whose he had always been. From the start, through the four years, and now more than ever, always hers.

He felt her smile as he kissed her, and damn there was nothing like knowing he’d put that smile there.

But then she made a sound like she was annoyed, and her hands were on his chest, pushing him away even as her mouth chased after his.

He pulled back, confused, glad the smile was still in place, but not understanding why she was telling him to stop.

“Birthdays, Bellamy,” she said, prompting him, “It’s all well and good to plan for yours but Lincoln’s is today.”

He groaned, knowing she was right.

Clarke rose up on her toes, planting an exaggerated kiss on his nose. “Places to be,” she sighed, “And people to see, right?”

He nodded or maybe he grumbled a response; he couldn’t be sure. Not when Clarke was so close and so happy. Everything else kind of faded.

They did make it to brunch, on time too. Nodded enthusiastically when Octavia asked about how _great_ a place it was, and told the waiter it was Lincoln’s birthday even when he insisted that he didn’t want to make a big deal about it. He liked the present they’d gotten him, and they all played pretty well at being morning people. Even with the mimosas, french toast, and birthday crepes, the highlight of the morning was definitely Octavia’s expression, when Clarke walked in with her hair tucked into a purple baseball cap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to write more! thanks to everyone who encouraged me to ♥


End file.
